


Someone Has to Draw First Blood

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Betrayal, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Romance, Roommates, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:17:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if "Legacy" were <i>not</i> Sam Flynn's first visit to the Grid?</p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <img/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the wonderful (and incredibly patient) vampiress_queen. Thanks for waiting out my marathon of fic-writing, hon! It's been a thrill and an honor, and I hope you enjoy the finished product as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> (BONUS! Check out [Strangest_love](http://archiveofourown.org/users/strangest_love/pseuds/strangest_love)'s gorgeous vid inspired by this fic: **[HERE](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/1241632)**!)

When Jordan died, the exhausted balance of Kevin's world came crashing down in all directions.

It wasn't just that he loved her too much to let her go. He needed her, too. She was the anchor point of sanity, grounding him in the real world when his projects and obsessions threatened to carry him away. She was stability and warmth and an understanding smile, and she _knew_ him. She understood how much she meant to him, even when Kevin lost track of time, got distracted, disappeared into his own world for days at a time. 

When Kevin had turned up two hours late to his own wedding, his parents were livid (Jordan's too). But _she_ had only laughed and thrown her bouquet at his head.

Now, with Jordan gone, Kevin was unmoored. He needed a new anchor. He wanted to bury himself in the Grid and never come out, but there was one vital, perfect reason he couldn't.

Sam needed him.

At four years old, Sam was too young to truly understand what had happened. Kevin didn't know how to explain, that death meant Mommy was never coming back.

But he tried. Through the aching emptiness in his own chest, he tried. And when Sam withdrew—when he went quiet and small and refused to speak to anyone for six straight days—Kevin felt it like the worst sort of failure.

It was desperation that finally put a new idea in his head. All Sam's short life, Kevin had been telling him stories about the Grid. 

Stories about Tron. The security program, the warrior. The hero. Those stories had always put the brightest glint in Sam's eyes. But now Sam's eyes were distant, no matter how Kevin tried to reach him. A wall was rising between himself and his boy, the only anchor he had left.

So on his next visit to the Grid, Kevin took his son along. Sam clung to his hand through the empty arcade, tiny fingers tightening around his as they descended the narrow steps to the hidden basement.

"You okay, kiddo?" Kevin asked as they entered the lab.

Sam looked up at him and nodded, but didn't speak. Kevin was almost growing accustomed to the silence.

"All right, buddy. Let's do this thing. You ready to see the Grid?"

Again Sam didn't answer. But when Kevin sat in his chair before the laser array, Sam climbed trustingly into his lap and shifted to peer down at the long flat desktop that served as a computer monitor.

"Here we go," Kevin murmured, and activated the digital transfer.

His own first trip via laser had been jarring. But as they materialized inside the system, he looked down at where his son stood beside him. Sam wore an awed expression, and Kevin could find no sign of disorientation on his face.

"Pretty neat, huh?"

Sam didn't even nod. He was too busy staring at the cityscape that spread up and out around them. 

Kevin had materialized them in Sigma Sector, not far from the stadium. There were programs milling about, and impossibly tall edifices arching high above. Everything was light and movement and a ceaseless murmur of sound. Sam reached for Kevin's hand, and Kevin watched his son. In a short span of days, he had almost forgotten what it felt like to smile. But the tiniest hint tugged now at one corner of his mouth.

"Glad you like it," Kevin said. "Come on. I'll show you around."

He showed Sam the city and tried not to be disappointed when excitement still didn't break through the boy's hurting, stubborn silence. Strangely enough, the very act of showing Sam his work helped settle Kevin, distracting him for minutes at a time from his own fresh grief. There was so much to see, so much to show, and he wanted to give Sam all of it.

At the base of the central security tower in Epsilon Sector, Kevin paused and drew Sam to a stop.

"Come on, kiddo," he said softly. "There's someone I want you to meet."

They rode a light-limned elevator to the top floor of the tower, making the trip in total silence. Kevin didn't try to fill the quiet with chatter, though the shifting lines of the city were a spectacle to behold. Sam stood at the outer wall as the lift carried them higher. His chubby palms pressed to the clear surface of the capsule, his wide eyes ravenous as he took in the view.

When the lift stopped, Sam returned to his father's side and reached again for his hand.

The halls of the security tower were always busy. In truth, this terminal was as much an informational hub as a security checkpoint. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of programs zipped through the crowded corridor, hurrying to countless nodes and destinations and tasks. Sam clung closer to Kevin through the throng, pressed anxiously to his side.

Eventually they reached the door of their true destination. It slid noiselessly open at Kevin's approach, and he pulled Sam gently inside by the hand. The emptiness of the expansive room was a jarring contrast to the chaos of the corridor. Sam clung stubbornly to Kevin's hand, clearly with no intention of letting go.

Only one program currently occupied the enormous space of this room—this primary security nexus—and he emerged quickly from a bank of screens and consoles with a surprised smile on his face.

"Flynn!"

Kevin tried to summon a smile, but could only manage a nod of acknowledgment as Tron approached.

At the first sign of someone new, Sam had ducked behind Kevin's legs. Kevin fully expected he would have to coax Sam out to make introductions—he was well acquainted with the little boy shyness that made Sam hesitant around new faces.

But already Sam was leaning out from behind Kevin's knees, peering at Tron with a wide, curious stare. To Kevin's shock, before he could decide how to go about luring the boy from hiding, Sam emerged all on his own. A glint of recognition sparked in his eyes, and Kevin gaped as Sam's short legs carried him forward. Sam didn't stop until he stood immediately before Tron, staring up and not the slightest bit bothered by Tron's intimidating height. Tron, for his part, stared down at Sam in obvious confusion, a slight crease between his brows, an expression of startled curiosity on his face. 

Boy and program made for a surreal sight, standing barely a foot apart. Sam looked tiny next to Tron's tall presence.

"Tron," Kevin broke into the assessing silence. "This is my son, Sam."

Tron's gaze shifted momentarily to Kevin, and comprehension crossed his face. A pause, brief but significant, elapsed in the quiet room. Then Tron looked again to Sam, and slowly knelt before him. Even on his knees Tron was the taller, but their eyes met squarely and Kevin held his breath watching them.

"Hello, Sam Flynn," Tron said softly. "I'm glad to meet you." 

Sam didn't respond, but Tron seemed unruffled by the child's silence. He waited a long moment, patient beneath Sam's regard. Eventually, Tron tilted his head to one side and spoke.

"Would you like to see the stadium, Sam Flynn?"

Sam nodded, and when Tron stood, Sam reached to take the program's hand.

In the days, weeks, months that followed, Kevin rarely returned to the Grid without Sam in tow. The more time he spent working with Clu, stabilizing and developing the system they were perfecting, the more often he left Sam in Tron's care. Sam still wasn't speaking, but Kevin didn't think he was imagining the way each visit to the Grid seemed to calm and reassure him. Sam was inching back towards the warm, active little boy he was before Jordan's death.

When the ISO's began to emerge from the Sea of Simulation, Kevin couldn't even process the impossibility of it all. He let his duties at Encom slip in favor of spending even more time on the Grid, bringing Sam with him as often as not. Kevin needed Tron sometimes, but Sam always stayed close. Watchful. Obvious hero worship flashed in his eyes. 

Kevin sort of knew the feeling. No one could move, fight, maneuver quite like Tron.

Clu never had the time or patience for the small human child who had become Kevin's constant shadow, but Tron more than made up for the fact. He rarely let Sam out of his sight, and Kevin would've had to be blind to miss the protective glint in the program's eyes. 

Sometimes Kevin and Clu had business in less stable sectors of the city. Kevin refused to put his boy in harm's way, and so he would ask Tron to care for Sam in his absence. Tron never refused, and Kevin knew his son was the safest he could possibly be.

The ISO sector took several visits to construct, and Kevin knew it would be a challenge to maintain. The Isometric Algorithms introduced a certain amount of inevitable chaos into the otherwise orderly system of the Grid. Clu expressed concern, but Kevin refused to worry. They could stay on top of this. They would make it work. The ISOs were going to change everything, and Kevin knew any challenge was worth it.

Leaving the ISO sector after an intensive restructuring of the central bypass, Kevin bid Clu goodbye at the Gamma Sector relay tower. He went in search of Sam, following the tug of instinct that he knew would lead him straight to his son. The Grid was more than just the tangible streets and buildings of Tron City. It was a subtler network of data, a constant input and output of information that Kevin could feel beneath his own skin. The more time he spent here, the surer his control, the more complete his awareness. He knew with certainty that he was moving the right direction.

He found Sam and Tron sitting side-by-side atop Gamma Sector's tallest bridge. Their legs dangled over the edge, perched as they were atop the low, brightly lit bounding wall that ran the entire length of the byway. 

In the real world, Kevin would've been terrified to see his young son in such a precarious position. Here on the Grid he wasn't afraid, especially with Tron so close. He knew Sam was safe.

Kevin didn't speak as he approached with quiet steps. Tron was murmuring too low for Kevin to make out. He didn't strain to hear, though his steps carried him silently closer. He was just near enough to decipher actual words now, Tron ending a soft question with, "—do you?"

"I guess," Sam answered in a tiny, quiet voice. Kevin's legs froze in place.

Three months since the funeral, and Kevin hadn't heard Sam speak a single syllable to anyone. But there sat his son now, hesitant and quiet, but talking to Tron.

Sam didn't say anything else, and eventually Kevin coughed and announced his presence. He didn't press. He didn't ask what they were talking about. But later, just before leaving the Grid, he took Tron aside and set a grateful hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Thanks," he said, not sure how to coherently express his gratitude.

Tron wordlessly inclined his head, and seemed to understand anyway.

It wasn't the last time he found Sam talking to Tron, and thank god for that. As months crept inexorably forward towards the first full year, Kevin overheard more conversations, and longer ones. He heard Sam admit to Tron, in the heartbreaking confession of a small, scared boy, how much he missed his mom. He heard fragmented stories, told from Sam's four-year-old perspective. He listened in awe as Tron's quiet, reassuring presence gradually drew Sam from his protective shell.

Even in the world outside, Sam was getting better. Warming, playing with other children again—still quiet, but at least _present_ now—and even smiling sometimes. He was gradually finding his way back to the energetic boy he should be.

Kevin didn't know Tron was teaching Sam about the games until he interrupted them in the middle of a mock battle. Sam moved with surprising grace, considering the awkward chubbiness of his small limbs. He mimicked Tron's movements with fierce focus, and Kevin smiled despite himself at the sight of the little boy disarming Tron. The unvarnished gleam of victory and the wide grin on Sam's face showed that he had no concept Tron had let him win.

Then Sam turned and saw Kevin, and dropped the light staff in his rush to cross the wide-lit practice arena.

"Daddy!" Sam called in his excitement, jumping as high as he could and trusting Kevin to catch him. "Daddy, I won, did you see?" 

"I sure did, kiddo." Kevin's smile felt like it might split his face. Sam's exuberance filled him with warmth and relief. In that moment Kevin wasn't thinking of the fractured code endangering the ISO sector, or of Encom neglected in the outside world, or even of the dull ache still hollowing out his own insides. All he knew was that Sam was smiling, and talking, and clinging tightly to him.

Tron was smiling, too. Watching from a short distance away, giving them space.

That year, for Sam's fifth birthday, Kevin made sure to set up the party event of the century. Nearly fifty children attended, friends and classmates and relatives, and the pyramid of presents towered taller than the birthday boy himself.

Sam refused to open a single present, and the party ended early. All he wanted for his birthday, it seemed, was the Grid.

When they set down on a familiar, bright-lined section of street, Tron was already waiting for them. Sam let go of Kevin's hand and dashed forward, calling Tron's name. Tron leaned down to catch him as Sam barreled in, sweeping him up into a hug. Sam laughed, then wrapped his arms tightly around Tron's neck and burrowed close.

"Happy birthday, Sam Flynn," Tron said, and Kevin could hear the smile in his voice.

Kevin's own chest felt tight, but he couldn't help smiling, too. In that moment, he could very nearly believe that he and Sam would both be okay.

When Clu's betrayal came, it was pure chance that Sam wasn't at Kevin's side. The boy had to attend school, and even with Kevin's real world responsibilities at Encom, he couldn't always wait on Sam to see to the needs of the Grid.

It was sheer, stupid luck that Kevin came alone to the Grid that day. But there his luck ended. The attack came out of nowhere, and even Tron could only hold Clu's forces for so long.

Kevin ran. What choice did he have? 

Later, from the wrong side of Tron City, Flynn watched with despair as the portal flickered closed.


	2. A World Apart

On Sam's twenty-first birthday, he makes Alan Bradley take him out drinking. Sam's had a fake I.D. for years, but this is different.

Alan seems to understand. He usually understands what Sam needs, even when Sam would just as soon everyone fuck off and leave him alone. There's a stubbornness to the man's friendship, born of the fact that Alan is practically family. Sam has resented it more than once—his teenage years weren't the most pleasant time for either of them—but more often Sam can appreciate the unshakable truth that Alan is the only person who will never let him down.

Everyone else does, sooner or later. But not Alan. And that's why Alan is the only one Sam wants anything to do with for this particular birthday.

"What is this place?" Sam asks as Alan gestures him through the door. The establishment looks more like a posh lounge than a proper bar, and it isn't exactly what Sam was anticipating. He was picturing more of a dive, not this swank club full of mahogany tables and sedate lighting. 

"I know." Alan nudges him towards a booth by the wall. "Not what you had in mind. But if you're bent on getting plastered tonight, you're drinking the good stuff." 

Sam can't protest Alan's reasoning, and he doesn't argue when Alan orders for both of them. He likes whiskey well enough, and the glass that materializes before him is easily the best he's ever tasted. 

"How've you been, Sam?" Alan asks after a second round arrives at their table. It's been months since they spoke, maybe longer, but Sam refuses to feel guilty. He may be crap at answering his phone, but Alan knows where to find him. 

"Oh, you know." Sam knocks back a slow swallow. "Keeping busy."

"Hacking government databases and skydiving?" Alan asks with a rueful smile.

"Aww, _Alan_." Sam grins and slouches in his seat. "You've been checking up on me. That's sweet."

Alan snorts and rolls his eyes, but doesn't otherwise respond. When he raises his glass to drink, there's something surprisingly self-conscious in the gesture. A quiet uncertainty that Sam's pretty sure is somehow his fault. 

"What is it?" Sam asks when Alan sets the glass back down.

Alan only hesitates a moment, locking Sam with a curious, gauging expression.

"I was surprised you called me tonight," he admits. He's watching Sam carefully, but he lets the statement end there. He doesn't turn it into a question, express or implied. He doesn't ask _why_. And that, among myriad other reasons, is why Sam appreciates Alan.

"Thanks for coming out," Sam says, dodging the observation and raising his glass in a wry toast.

"Hey." Alan meets his glass with a clink. "It's a big day. I wouldn't miss it for anything."

They drink in companionable quiet for the next couple hours. Alan is clearly pacing himself, chatting at intervals, lapsing into easy silence whenever Sam doesn't engage. 

Sam's head is comfortably cloudy from the liquor when he asks, "Did Dad ever tell you about the Grid?"

Alan's spine straightens almost imperceptibly, and his keen eyes sharpen on Sam.

"Once or twice," Alan admits. "He had some crazy ideas."

"He sure did," Sam agrees, knocking back a final swallow from his glass and catching the server's eye for another. "I ever tell you I've been there?"

Alan's expression softens sadly.

"Sam..."

"No, I know," Sam interrupts, a little bitterly. "Not possible. It was just this stupid thing, I barely remember... I was real little, I guess. It was right after Mom died. Dad was always telling me these stories. I must've decided the Grid would suck less than the real world, because I used to pretend..." Sam shakes his head, honestly not sure why he's telling Alan this. It's stupid and childish, a ridiculous fantasy he used to play out so long ago it shouldn't still be this vivid in his mind.

But Alan is watching him without judgment, just a sad, fond smile in his eyes. There's something calming in Alan's patient presence, and Sam takes another drink, letting good whiskey warm and dull his senses. Bracing himself to admit more, even though he's never told anyone these things.

"I remember almost like it was real," he admits with a sheepish shrug. "Dad would take me to this secret lab under the arcade—like I'd been watching too many Saturday morning cartoons, y'know? And he'd use this giant laser to zap us both _inside_ the computer. And it was a whole world, this great big city full of programs that looked like people."

"Sounds like fun," Alan says with an encouraging smile.

"I met Tron." Sam grins ruefully. "He looked just like you." 

Alan grunts a surprised laugh, low and genuine, and Sam shakes his head.

"I know it sounds nuts."

"Not at all," Alan disagrees. "It sounds like a little boy with a healthy imagination."

"Maybe. Still seems kinda stupid in retrospect." He doesn't admit that when his dad disappeared, the imagined visits to the Grid stopped entirely. He doesn't like talking about his dad, especially with Alan. Alan's the one person on the whole stupid planet who hasn't given up on Kevin Flynn, and Sam can't deal with that tonight.

So he changes the subject. Asks about Encom (full of assholes as usual), about Alan's love life (nonexistent), about anything else he can think of. Alan humors him, keeps his glass full, and drives Sam home when the club closes.

"Thanks, man," Sam slurs when Alan deposits him in a heap on his couch.

"Happy birthday, Sam," Alan says, and lets himself out.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Despite dropping out of college and taking up an alarming number of dangerous hobbies, Sam reaches his twenty-seventh birthday unscathed.

He waits a week to keep everyone off their guard, then celebrates by breaking into Encom (it's practically tradition) and releasing the new operating system on the internet, the way it was meant to be. Free. He entertains himself imagining the look on Alan's face. Sam's got plenty of experience with the way Alan's awful poker face can give away an eloquent mix of conflicting reactions, usually amusement and consternation. 

That night he comes home to find Alan waiting in his apartment, brandishing a pager and a set of keys to the old arcade. 

Sam protests. He does his damnedest to blow Alan off. But they both know the real score. They both know Sam is going to drop everything and climb right back on his bike tonight. He's going to ride across town to Flynn's Arcade the second Alan leaves.

The only question is how much nothing he'll find when he gets there.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

There's something surreal in the patchy brightness as the arcade comes grudgingly to life around Sam. The circuit breaker box is dusty, grimy with cobwebs, but the switches flip smoothly at a touch. Around him the machines rumble and hum and clatter to life, a hundred familiar sounds that send uncomfortable shivers along Sam's skin.

He hasn't set foot in this building since before his dad disappeared. He doesn't particularly want to be here now.

The jukebox comes alive louder than the games, and Journey echoes through the high-ceilinged arcade. Sam turns and surveys the room, unexpected nerves tightening his stomach. He should go up to the old office-cum-apartment that looks over the wide arcade floor. He turns the other direction instead, a nagging murmur of deja vu leading his steps to the far end of the arcade.

The word Tron lights blue and bright above the sole game against the far wall. The place of honor. Sam approaches with an unerring stride, and it's not until he reaches the machine that he realizes what he's considering. He must be nuts. That's not proper memory telling him if he pulls the machine aside he'll find a secret stairway. It's nothing but childhood delusion. When Sam shoves the glowing kiosk aside, there will be nothing but dusty, gritty wall behind it. 

No amount of certainty can stop Sam trying, though. And when he throws his weight and shoulders into it, the machine swings aside more easily than he expects. A sturdy, subtle hinge allows Sam to push the Tron machine a solid ninety degrees to the side, and Sam can't quite make himself believe what he's seeing. 

The hidden door is smaller by far than Sam remembers, but the fact that it's here at all is beyond fucked up. Sam was just a stupid kid with an overactive imagination. He dreamed up this whole super-spy, secret passage beneath the arcade thing.

Didn't he?

But through the door there's a passage leading down a narrow flight of stairs. Darker than Sam's memory, and about a hundred times more claustrophobic, but familiar in every particular. Cement steps, no railing, drab brick walls, and finally another door at the very bottom of the steps. Sam doesn't hesitate. He turns the handle and steps through, into the basement lab he's spent twenty years convincing himself never existed outside his own head. 

Sam's heart thuds dangerously in his chest, and he wants to retreat. He wants to panic and call Alan. He moves farther into the room instead, letting the door swing loudly shut behind him. None of the Arcade's noisy chaos carries down into the heavy quiet of the lab. Sam takes in everything—the outdated computer bank, the laser apparatus in the far corner, photos on the faded bulletin board, a tall locker near the door, his dad's favorite mug on the edge of the console—all covered in thick layers of dust. He sits and wipes aside the worst of it from the center of the main computer terminal, and is more than a little surprised when the system comes awake. 

Two decades, and the system beneath his fingers still comes alive at a touch.

He does hesitate this time, as he types in text commands for the laser activation sequence. 'Aperture clear: yes/no?' flashes on the screen, awaiting confirmation, and Sam's fingers hover above the keyboard in a moment of uncertainty.

He can still walk away. He can admit this is crazy and put it behind him. 

He activates the laser instead. There's no choice, really. He has to know.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

He sets down in a room that looks nearly identical to the basement lab. Cleaner. Darker. Streamlined edges and smooth walls. Sam can't fathom why his dad would have built an exact replica of Flynn's into the Grid, but there's no question in his mind that this is exactly where he is.

This can't be happening, Sam's rational mind protests. He must be having an amazingly vivid dream. He can't be on the Grid. The Grid isn't _real_.

A deafening rumble of sound shakes the building, bright light stabbing through the small, high windows, and Sam startles up from his seat. A familiar pitch and vibration fill the air, and Sam realizes with a sharp jolt that this can't be a dream. Crazy or not, he's on the Grid, and everything around him is just as real as he is.

He emerges with caution onto the street, still trapped in a strange haze of unreality. He's not quick enough to escape the Recognizer that sets down in the street before him. He's reasonably sure he could reprogram the restraints to release him, but they're already flying through the constant midnight sky. He remembers gravity working just as surely on the Grid as anywhere else, which means there's nowhere for him to go. So he endures the ride in confused silence, and doesn't resist when he's released and manhandled—when he finds himself once again secured, sucked below ground and prepared for the arena.

This is ridiculous. It can't be happening. But it's absolutely happening, and as the last of the Sirens steps back into the wall, Sam reaches behind his back. His fingers ghost the strangely familiar edges of his identity disc, and this, more than anything, brings the reality of the situation home. 

Sam has spent twenty years telling himself he imagined this place. How is he supposed to swallow the revelation that for two decades—for most of his fucked up childhood and his entire adult life—he's had it completely wrong?

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

He wins his matches with the ease of a skilled player, previous experience rising to the fore, never mind that he was just a kid playing around when he first learned the rules of the arena. Tron was a thorough teacher, and as the tournament plays out it all comes back to Sam with vivid clarity. Half a dozen times he considers breaking from the strange, transparent pod, but in the end he stays put. He plays and fights, winning round after round (though the matches become more challenging, no one stands any actual chance against him), because where else is he supposed to go?

If there are answers to be found, surely he'll discover them after winning this stupid game.

When all comers are gone, he thinks that's the end of it. But then a new sort of chanting starts up in the crowd, ominous and surging. A measured, metallic voice announces, " _Initiating final round_ ," and the translucent cage surrounding Sam morphs and changes, expanding around him. 

There's something chillingly familiar about the helmeted program that emerges and takes up a combative position opposite Sam. He can't place why. The sharp red light lining the program's armor sends unpleasant shivers down Sam's spine. He wishes for a glimpse of the program's face, and he's caught in an inexplicable moment of deja vu as he watches the the program settle into a fighting stance and draw the disc from his back.

Then the program takes the disc in both hands and splits it in two, effectively doubling his weapons. Sam's reasonably sure that's against the rules—Tron sure as hell never showed him anything like that—and when he tries to do the same he finds no such split in his own identity disc. 

" _That's_ not goddamn fair," he mutters, but settles into a defensive pose just the same.

The crowd is still chanting, and in the split second before combat begins, Sam finally makes out what they're saying.

" _Rinzler_! _Rinzler_! _Rinzler_!"

Sam doesn't recognize the name, and he doesn't have long to think about it. His attention is engaged elsewhere, just trying to keep his head on his shoulders. Rinzler isn't just better than every other combatant Sam has already faced. He's better than Sam. Sam quickly learns to cope with the shifting gravity and the strange terrain, and somehow it's still all he can do to keep his feet. He knows he's giving ground. Every time Rinzler closes in and Sam deflects, his reactions are just a hair too slow.

He's losing. Gradually as hell, but losing just the same.

Fuck. He should have cut and run while he had the chance. There's no way he can make any kind of escape now, with the entire arena watching him. Sam knows this isn't a game. He's seen what happens to the losing contenders, and he doesn't think he gets special treatment if he goes down. Which means the only way out of here in one piece is victory.

He curses when Rinzler's disc cuts through his armor and slices his arm. Pain on the Grid. That's a new one. He barely has time to process the unpleasant novelty of the sensation before Rinzler tackles him to the floor. Sam drops his identity disc with the impact, and it clatters away out of reach. He grits his teeth as Rinzler pins him and crouches over him, bright disc pressed to Sam's throat. A strange, steady rumbling sound reaches Sam's ears—a metallic hum that's almost, but not quite, a growl—and he realizes it's coming from the program.

He realizes next that he's not dead. He should be a million shattered pixels on the floor right now. The crowd is certainly chanting for it loudly enough. But Rinzler crouches motionless above him, head cocked to one side. He's so close all Sam can see is his own face in the dark reflection of the impenetrable helmet. 

Then comes the program's voice, a hissing gravel that fits right in with the constant, grating rumble of sound.

" _User_." 

Something nags at Sam—something familiar beneath the rough edge of that voice, though he can't quite place it. He wants Rinzler to speak again and give him another chance, but the program is silent as he stands and drags Sam roughly to his feet. 

There are questions, shouted at him over some massive PA system.

"I'm not a program," he shouts back defiantly. "My name is Sam Flynn."

Silence falls with instant finality. But more startling than the quiet is the way Rinzler's attention snaps sharply to Sam's face, posture tightening in a way that sets off every alarm in Sam's head.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Sam is more than a little off balance as he's dragged into a smaller room. This space is paneled with yellow lights and full of menacing-looking programs. Rinzler guides him forward with unforgiving shoves, not taking his hand off Sam's shoulder, and Sam takes in the surroundings—some kind of control room—with unmasked trepidation.

He holds his breath as the program in long, gold-lit robes approaches him. When the opaque helmet folds smoothly back to reveal the face beneath, Sam's legs almost give out beneath him.

" _Dad_."

But of course it's not that easy. Sam should know better. 

Rinzler's hand still clutches too tightly at Sam's shoulder. He stands so close, just behind and to the side, that Sam can actually _feel_ the rumble of his fragmented growl (more like a purr, he thinks, in a surreal corner of his mind). Sam's pretty sure he should feel menaced by the prolonged contact, but for some reason he finds the touch grounding. There must be something wrong with him—this place throwing him off—because Sam could swear there's something almost protective in the way Rinzler is touching him.

Christ, he needs to get out of here before he _really_ loses his mind.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Rhythmic, deafening chants of spectators fill the arena as the gaming Grid shifts and changes in preparation for the next challenge. Tracks, arches, ramps, tunnels. A hundred obstacles for speeding light cycles to maneuver through and around.

Rinzler is not usually distracted by the lights, voices, chaos of the games. He is as much in his element here as he is outside the arena, a warrior no matter who or where he fights. Obedience and violence. He is Clu's strongest, steadiest weapon. It is not his place to think or question; only to obey. His existence is a narrow reality of blank walls and questions he has never sought to answer. He has never thought to wonder what came before; always it's been enough that he knows to whom he belongs. He knows his duties, his loyalties. Wondering beyond those contours fills his head with a sharp discomfort, a throbbing ache that tells him more surely than Clu's commandments ever could that he is not allowed question. 

Only once did he push harder, wanting to know. But the deeper he delved, the greater the pain, until he lost himself to an empty darkness. He emerged from that darkness to Clu's face, anger and worry etched across familiar features. Rinzler knows better; he has asked no questions since.

But as he waits impatiently beneath the arena, the first aching hints of pain start behind his eyes. The rigid walls feel shaky and wrong, and his focus is split dangerously.

Sam Flynn.

It is difficult, watching from the sidelines as the light cycles race and dodge and gradually take each other down. Rinzler is in reserve, but he is desperate to move. He should be out there. There is no one who can best him on a light cycle. Not even Clu. Perhaps if he were moving, Rinzler would be better able to ignore the nagging, distracting sensations that feel almost— _almost_ —like memory.

This is wrong. Rinzler does not _have_ memories. He has obedience. He has skill. 

_Sam Flynn_. An image flashes unwelcomed through Rinzler's mind, vivid and glaringly bright. A small boy, sad but wide-eyed, clinging to his hand and staring out across the Sea of Simulation. Only a child.

 _What is a child_? Rinzler thinks, and the question lances through him like physical pain.

There is a disturbance on the light cycle Grid, different from the usual violence of programs darting, crashing, derezzing each other. An unauthorized combatant appears in a heavily armored light runner. The User climbs in, and then— _finally_ —Rinzler hears his own name announced in smooth, calm tones as he and his team are released in pursuit. 

"System failure. Release Rinzler."

Rinzler presses his light cycle to higher speeds, catching up as the bulky light runner makes quickly towards the far wall of the stadium.

He nearly swerves off course at another uninvited flash in his mind. Another image of a small boy—the same small boy—but smiling now. Laughing. Running towards him with single-minded spirit. 

_Sam Flynn_. 

A hundred protective instincts surge suddenly in Rinzler's chest, and it _hurts_ , the feelings twisting inside him where he is accustomed to feeling nothing at all. He doesn't understand. He can make sense of neither the images nor the feelings, as they warp the cool efficiency of his code into unfamiliar shapes. 

Forcing his attention back to the Grid before him is perhaps the most difficult thing Rinzler has ever done. He presses his light cycle faster. He will catch the escaping User. He is already gaining on the light runner. There's too great a distance between them and the far wall, and Rinzler gauges the space, knows he will overtake them, though it will be close.

A third flash strikes him hard. The boy, exhausted, asleep, impossibly light in his arms. Infinite trust in the slack lines of his face. A wordless promise wraps tightly beneath Rinzler's skin, more than a memory, an unassailable truth. He will never let harm come to this boy.

He doesn't understand. He can't think through the pounding in his head, the tight wrongness in his chest, the sensations—feelings—he has no words for.

That's not true. He does have words for them. 

_Sam Flynn_.

Without truly comprehending why—without daring to press for understanding of the jagged chaos closing in around him—Rinzler slows almost imperceptibly. Just enough. The light runner shoots two missiles at the far wall, and has just enough of a lead to escape, jumping the deep chasm and landing safely on the other side.

Rinzler draws to a stop at the shattered edge of the gaming Grid, and watches the light runner disappear in the distance.


	3. What Stays Behind

Quorra watches the reunion between father and son with quiet fascination. 

There are tears in Sam's eyes, and on his face, and she's curious about them. There's no question that the two men are happy to see each other, yet still there are tears. There have only been a handful of times she's seen Kevin Flynn cry, and then only when the loss and heartbreak overcame him. She marvels at the strange discord of happiness and tears on Sam's face now. 

Dinner is an awkward affair, and the inevitable overload of explanation comes after. Quorra's own heart aches at being reminded of her own isolation, of the others like her—hundreds, perhaps thousands of them—lost forever. Clu's devastation. She listens to the familiar story and watches understanding creep into Sam's eyes.

In the quiet that follows, it's Sam who speaks.

"I knew about this place." His shoulders are hunched in, his posture miserable. "I _knew_. I convinced myself it wasn't real, but if I'd just _told_ someone—"

"Sam," Flynn admonishes gently, stepping close and reaching down to set a hand on his son's shoulder. "You were just a kid. No one would've believed you."

"Alan would have," Sam says.

Quorra knows of Alan Bradley, from Flynn's stories shared over so many cycles together. She files this new detail away with everything else she knows. There's certainty in Sam's words; he's not just being optimistic. He knows there's truth in his assertion, and he speaks with a firm confidence that leaves no room for doubt. It makes her want to meet Alan all the more.

"Even so," Flynn insists. "Don't for a second think _any_ of this was your fault. I should have been more careful."

The argument drains visibly from Sam's posture, but Quorra still sees an edge of guilt shadowing his eyes. She says nothing. It's not her place. 

Later, when Flynn is asleep and Sam is desperate, Quorra gives Sam the information he demands. She's learned that there are few programs worthy of trust, but there is Zuse. He may have failed in his efforts to save the ISOs, but no one else tried like him.

Perhaps his betrayal should not surprise her. Perhaps it was every bit as inevitable as Sam Flynn's arrival on the Grid.

The End of Line Club is already a chaos of combat when Quorra arrives. She dives without hesitation into the fray, just in time. She and Sam fight back-to-back, along with perhaps a dozen denizens of the Grid who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They fight, but they are not winning.

Quorra's opponent lands a hard blow that leaves her stunned, and suddenly she's pinned. Her arm is twisted back, and she can't evade the light baton swinging towards her. Her entire body shocks, a protest of pain, as the blow connects and an empty blankness wipes everything away.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

When finally his dad explains, Sam can't help thinking he should've realized from the start. Quorra is special. Unique, sharp, _alive_ in a way no one else in Clu's regime-conquered world has been. She is unmeasured excitement, bright with something almost like joy despite the narrow contours of her existence on the Grid.

Thank god his dad is familiar enough with her code to repair the damage. Thank god she wakes up, no real harm done, and takes the vial of energy from Sam's hand to drink in a single swallow. 

The more she tells him about herself, the more Sam marvels at her strength. She's the last of her kind, living an existence in hiding because it's the only way to survive. She's lost everything—or very nearly everything—to the monster wearing Kevin Flynn's face. She would be well within her rights to spend every moment wallowing in rage, revenge, hate. But she doesn't seem to even comprehend those words, and Sam can't imagine what that's like. 

He's spent too much of his own life angry.

The recognizer that sails past is the first sign of trouble. Seconds later, the enormous carrier ship appears from the mist, a sight far worse. With it comes the realization of the true scope of Clu's plan. 

"He's building an army," Sam realizes in soft, horrified tones. 

Neither Sam nor his dad expects the move Quorra makes. Removing herself from the equation. They're neither of them fast enough to stop her. By the time they realize what's she's doing, she's out in the open and it's already too late. Rinzler has seen her, and he moves to intercept. Drawing the disc off his back, he splits it into two and strikes a threatening pose.

" _Tron_ ," Kevin whispers, so softly Sam almost doesn't hear him. "He's alive."

Sam darts a look at his dad, then back around the edge of their hiding place. For the first time, he really looks at Rinzler, and with a jolt of despair he realizes his dad is right. That unexplained sense of the familiar, the way Rinzler moves, that snap of recognition back in the arena when Sam first announced who he was. How could he have missed it? 

Sam's immediate instinct is to rush forward—for Quorra, for Tron, a desperate urge to do _something_ —but his father holds him back.

"Sam. _Sam_." Kevin shoves him against the opposite wall of their narrow hiding space, and something like panic flashes in his eyes. "Not like this. We have to be smart. There's another way." 

Sam hesitates. Adrenaline rushes sharp beneath his skin, making thought and prudence difficult. But his father is right, and Sam forces himself to take a slow breath that does very little to calm him. Finally he nods.

"Come on." Kevin lets him go. "This way."

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Despite Clu's voice echoing throughout the hangar, Rinzler hears the commotion in the control room above. He moves quickly, dragging the prisoner with him. He can't explain even to himself the sudden desperation with which he moves. He knows only that the Users are here on the carrier—that one of them is just above—and whatever else, Rinzler must get there before Clu concludes his speech.

A voice of polished calm announces, "Master key disengaged," and Rinzler knows he is out of time. He will arrive first—the lift has already carried him and his prisoner halfway to the landing far above—but Clu will be close behind.

The door slides open, revealing the control deck, Sam striding forward with disc in hand—stopping at the sight of Rinzler and Quorra in the open door.

"Sam, _go_ ," Quorra shouts. 

Instead of retreating, Sam Flynn raises his disc. Pain sears through Rinzler, though Sam Flynn has not yet attacked. The User stands in a confident battle stance, and with a sharp burst Rinzler's walls shatter and memory rushes through. 

_He_ taught Sam Flynn that stance. He taught the boy to fight. Mock battles, but real skills. Sam Flynn belongs to him. A thousand cycles have passed, and he has grown—he is a User, and time does strange things to Users—but he is still Rinzler's to protect.

No. Not Rinzler.

Tron.

His name is Tron. The dark helmet folds back without thought or command, and Tron sees confusion flash in Sam Flynn's eyes. More recognition than shock, but it's enough to stay his hand and halt his attack. The User has frozen, staring at Tron's face, and Tron can't move through the rapturing cascade of his own code, struggling with too much information at once.

A burst of movement behind Sam Flynn alerts Tron to Jarvis's approach. Jarvis holds his own disc in one hand, and wears a look of terrified desperation in his eyes. 

Quorra stiffens, but whatever warning she intends to shout will come too late. Jarvis is already close enough, is raising his arm to strike.

Tron snaps free from his own stillness without a sound, darting forward and hurling his disc with deadly precision. Sam's eyes widen, and he moves to raise his own disc in a defensive gesture that would be far too slow to save him if he were actually Tron's target.

Tron's disc arcs smoothly past the User and shatters through Jarvis's chest. The program derezzes with a scream, and Tron reclaims his disc on the rebound. Sam is still staring at him, wearing a different shadow of shock.

Knowledge flashes through Tron's mind in a giddy, painful rush. Kevin Flynn, introducing his son for the first time. The ISOs, the Grid, the perfect system. Clu's betrayal, and the blotted-out cycles that followed, harrowing torture as Clu twisted Tron's code in a thousand wrong directions until he had the tool he needed. Tron's insides feel like they're grating violently against each other, his usual rumble of sound edging louder at the conflict between his own memories and Clu's modifications. He has never felt pain like this.

But there's no time. He can't afford to freeze up again. Already a group of guards has arrived and converged, crashing in through the expansive window, climbing up from below, and Tron moves without conscious thought. He is still a warrior, and he ignores the crisis warring through his insides. He takes the other programs down with methodical precision. Sam Flynn helps at first, but quickly rushes to the ISO's side, freeing her from her bonds as Tron fells two more guards. 

He is not quick enough to derez the final one. His discs are still spinning their return arc, and the last guard stands beside the empty pedestal with his own disc raised, poised for a killing blow. Sam Flynn is distracted, helping his friend. He won't be able to evade the attack.

Tron doesn't wait for his own discs to return to his hands. He rushes the guard, raw desperation giving him speed, and he collides with his target. An extra shove, the force of momentum, and together they tumble backwards, out the shattered viewport and into open air.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Sam rushes to the edge of the control deck, reaching the shattered window and staring down. There's no solid ground below, just a wide empty gap in the carrier floor. Tron and the guard are already too far below, vanishing into the mist.

Something awful knots painfully in Sam's chest. Denial burns in his blood. This isn't okay. It doesn't get to happen like this. Tron can't sacrifice himself in the very same instant Sam gets him back. Twenty years convincing himself the Grid wasn't real—convincing himself Tron was just a desperate figment of a heartbroken child's imagination—and now that the reality is in front of his face, it ends like this.

But this isn't the end, Sam reminds himself. There's no time to wallow. He and Quorra need to get out of here, before Clu and his goons arrive to see what the fuss is all about. 

"Sam, come on." Quorra tugs at his arm, and Sam rises at her urging. She's holding two of the packs from the wall, the red gliding wings Sam has seen Clu's minions use to control an otherwise impossible fall. 

He dons the pack she hands him, as Quorra does the same, and then they dive through what's left of the window. In unison they veer towards his dad and the light jet waiting below, and Sam's pulse races with every breath.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Pursuit is inevitable, but for a few minutes at least, something like calm surrounds them. Quorra guides the light jet with a steady hand, steering between a thickening snarl of hovering monoliths. The stones stand like a jagged forest, suspended in the very air. Sam's never seen anything like them. Even after the noisy splendor of the Grid, this strange landscape is a staggering sight.

"We're actually going to make it," Sam breathes, not quite daring to believe. 

"Damn right we are." Kevin's smile is sad. "I just wish..." A pause, a tired sigh. "Tron deserves better. I wish there were something we could've done. I hate the thought of leaving him behind—leaving him _wrong_ like that. He was a good friend."

"Dad," Sam says in a voice tight with emotion. "Tron saved us."

Kevin turns sharply in his seat, staring at Sam with startled incomprehension. 

"Tell me," Kevin demands.

"I don't know how it happened," Sam admits. "One second he's standing there, and I'm sure he's going to take my head off. Next thing I know he's fighting off a swarm of guards and buying us time to escape. The look on his face... Dad, I know it sounds crazy, but I swear to god he remembered me." 

"Where is he now?"

"Gone." Sam chokes a little on the word. "He fell."

For the briefest moment, moisture glitters in Kevin's eyes. But he blinks, stubborn resolve hardening his features as he faces forward once again. 

Sam can't think of anything to say, probably couldn't speak anyway through the emotion suddenly clogging his throat. A quick glance at Quorra shows a gentler sadness in her eyes, quiet empathy for Sam or Kevin or maybe both. Her focus remains locked forward on the horizon, but her features wear a softer look.

Sam searches in vain for a way to break the silence, and an instant later the effort becomes moot. A squadron of smaller light jets materializes from behind, opening fire. Quorra reacts quickly, spinning their course to one side and out of the line of fire. When Sam's seat automatically repositions to the rear of the jet, putting the defensive weaponry in his hands, he takes on the task without hesitation.

He searches the horizon for Clu with every shot, but as he knocks enemy after enemy out of the sky eventually Sam has to concede that Clu isn't here. He tries to be glad of it, but ominous premonition settles heavily behind his ribs. he knows the program's absence can't bode well.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

It's too damn quiet when they dock the light jet at the lowest edge of the platform. The portal is still open, an almost blinding light above them. The intense glow seeps around sharp edges and dark walls, tall architecture rendering the platform an imposing sight.

Trepidation tightens in Kevin's chest as he leads the way up the sharp line of stairs, Sam and Quorra hurrying in his wake.

At the top of the stairs, they emerge into an open space dominated by the fierce glow of light. The portal stands, a blinding beacon at the end of a long, wide ramp. 

Between the portal and Kevin Flynn stands Clu. The program wears a grim sneer of victory on his face. He's flanked by more than a dozen sentry drones, all armed with batons and explosives. Too many adversaries. Even if they fight (and they will, Kevin is done sitting back and refusing to fight), there's no way they can win.

"Let's do this," Sam says beside him. Steel and certainty harden his voice, leaving no trace of fear. Kevin is suddenly so proud of his boy that his chest hurts.

Quorra and Sam dart forward in a unison that looks almost rehearsed, engaging the sentries that rush to meet them. Clu stays out of the line of fire, and Flynn himself hangs back, assessing the terrain, trying to work out a safe path to the portal. He curses when more guards swarm in from the stairs behind him, then turns and draws the disc from his back to dodge and defend. 

He fights for what seems an eternity, feeling for the first time the age in his limbs, the fatigue in his soul. For the second time in his life, his advantages as a User aren't enough. He's being overwhelmed by sheer numbers, and before long he begins to tire. 

It's fitting, somehow, that Tron arrives at the very moment Kevin Flynn gives up hope. Dual identity discs flying, arcing, cutting through the opposition as Tron soars in from god only knows where, putting himself between Flynn and the oncoming enemy. Tron lands in a crouch, blue-lit panels flickering frantically in his armor, and then, quick as lightning, Tron is moving again. 

Flynn stares, frozen in awe, and can't help the wide grin that spreads across his face at the sight of his friend and ally—in one piece, alive, _right here_ in the face of every impossibility. Flynn grins and laughs, and takes his own disc (Quorra's disc) more firmly in hand.

Now that he's not clinging to the edge of imminent defeat, Flynn takes a moment to again survey the chaos of flashing, shattering battle. Quorra has managed to reach the portal, fighting more than her fair share of Clu's thinning ranks, knocking programs over the side of the platform as she holds her position. She's yelling at Sam—something Kevin can't make out from this distance, can't decipher over the angry noise of battle and derezzing programs.

Sam is fighting Clu, right at the narrowest segment of platform. Holding his own, but cut off from the portal by Clu's smirking, malicious presence. Flynn curses, barely noticing the rushing sentry program that shatters to pieces under his hand. He can't get to Sam like this. There are still at least a dozen programs spanning the platform, blocking Flynn's path to the narrow ramp where Sam is trapped. 

An instant's lull in the fighting brings Tron back to his side, and Flynn doesn't hesitate to ask the only question that matters.

"Can you get him out of here?"

Tron nods, a movement Flynn catches in his peripheral vision.

"Good. _Go_. I'll keep Clu busy, you just take care of Sam." He pauses, risks taking his eyes off the enemy to meet Tron's, and adds softly, "Thank you, old friend."

Tron hesitates no longer, perhaps taking Flynn's words for dismissal or perhaps simply knowing that there can be no more delay. He crouches in a runner's lunge, whole body taut as a live wire. When he moves, it's with impossible speed. Tron is a blur, rushing past sentry drones without engaging, there and gone so fast no one can intercept him. He reaches the narrowing ramp of the platform before Clu so much as registers his approach, and when he tackles Clu to the ground it's all the opening necessary. Tron is on his feet the next instant, grabbing Sam by the arm and dragging him towards the portal. Flynn watches them go, terrified to hope—

By the time Tron and Sam reach the portal, Quorra has cleared that end of the platform of all assailants. They're in the clear. There's only Clu now, and Kevin—alone and surrounded. 

Clu hesitates, clearly torn. Wrath glints viciously in his eyes at Tron—at Sam Flynn and Quorra—so close to escape. 

" _Clu_!" Flynn calls, voice taunting. Then, soft and dark, "Remember what you came for."

It's enough. Clu turns his back on the portal.

Pure ugliness contorts Clu's face when he realizes Flynn's deception. It's Quorra's disc that clatters from Clu's hand to the ground, and then Clu turns. The ramp has already retracted, leaving a monstrous gap between the portal and the rest of the platform—but Flynn knows that gap won't be enough.

" _Dad_!" Sam's voice calls, desperate and wrecked. Flynn raises his eyes, sees Sam struggling against Tron and Quorra both, trying to get back to him. Unwilling (unable) to accept the way this has to end. Flynn knows the feeling.

"Sam, _go_!" Flynn shouts. Clu is already moving, away from Flynn, towards the portal, and Flynn calls, "Tron, get him out of here!"

In a tripping jumble, all three figures are in the portal, lit and blurred by the rushing column of light. Flynn stands, stares, sees Clu running now, a mad dash and then a leap across the wide chasm—

Flynn acts, every instinct screaming at him to end this. None of this matters if Sam doesn't get out, and there's only one way to stop Clu now. Flynn reaches out with all his strength, his power, his very self. Wind swirls and scatters in all directions, and he pulls Clu inexorably towards him—resisting all the way, but helpless to escape Flynn's fierce summons.

The last thing Flynn sees as Clu's power melts and swirls and twines with his own, is three figures disappearing in the sharp brilliance of the portal. Memory surges as bright as the expanding beacon, burning through Flynn—sadness, joy, regret, giddy relief—and he knows this is the end. 

"Goodbye, kiddo," he whispers, as the world comes apart.


	4. Off the Grid

The outside world is strange on Sam's eyes after the bright, sleek dimensions of the Grid. There's firm reality in the dusty, poorly lit contours of the neglected lab, reassuring and wretched all at once. 

Sam is composed as he powers down the laser array. He's steady as he copies over the shattered remnants of the Grid to a backup drive and hangs it around his neck. He takes a slow breath as he shuts down the entire computer system, letting the outdated hard drive rest at last. 

Then it's done, and the finality of it all hits him, and suddenly Sam can't breathe. 

He's not crying. His eyes burn, but they're completely dry as emotion twists tight in his chest. What the fuck is this, that he should find his dad again—learn the truth—and still not get to say goodbye? 

"He's really gone this time." Sam's voice is as wrecked as his pulse. 

"I'm sorry, Sam," Quorra says softly from somewhere behind him. Sam doesn't turn around. He feels shaken to his core, and he hates the thought of anyone seeing him like this. 

When his knees give out, Tron is at his side, strong hands guiding Sam carefully to the ground. Sam doesn't look into Tron's face; he's too busy trying to get his breathing under control. But Tron kneels beside him, hovering close, not interfering. Sam's head is starting to pound, and Tron isn't letting go. Sam shouldn't be this grateful, but Tron's grip on him is a vice of solidity and support. 

Much as Sam hates admitting he needs _anyone_ , he's in no position to deny it now.

He moves then, unthinking, turning to Tron and wrapping his arms around the program's shoulders. He clings to Tron like the scared kid he was twenty years ago, the last time he set foot on the Grid.

Tron doesn't fidget under Sam's crushing hold, or give any other indication that he minds. He offers no meaningless reassurances. He just kneels in silence and waits for Sam to calm down.

Eventually, endless minutes later, Sam lets go. His head is still buzzing, but he feels a little more grounded as he raises his eyes and offers Tron a weak smile. 

Tron's expression is a cryptic blank that doesn't change as he stands and offers Sam a hand up. Sam accepts without a word, letting go of Tron's hand as soon as he's on his feet.

Now that he's not on the verge of hyperventilating, Sam turns, his eyes casing the room, taking in everything at once. The lab itself is unchanged, though a lot more crowded with three people standing in the narrow space. Tron looks much the same as he did on the Grid, though his armor hasn't survived the transition into the real world. The planes of his body are covered in thin black fabric stretched taut across his muscles. There don't appear to be seams, zippers, buttons, anything at all like that. 

They'll have to cut Tron free and find him some proper clothing—he looks a little too close to naked to go out in public like that, tight fabric leaving nearly nothing to the imagination.

Quorra is more of a surprise. She's actually dressed. In _clothes_. A black leather jacket, pants about as tight as whatever Tron is wearing, and actual boots on her feet. Sam gives the whole laser process about two seconds' thought before deciding he doesn't need to understand. 

Quorra sits curled in Kevin's desk chair, watching with kind eyes and waiting patiently for Sam to get himself together. 

Sam's got it together about as well as he's going to tonight, which means he has to figure out what to do next. It's not fair, having to make plans and decisions, having to think coherently so soon after escaping the Grid. But Sam doesn't hesitate; he has too much to do.

He starts with the simplest task before him, giving Tron a quick look before crossing to the narrow metal locker by the door. He finds exactly what he expects inside: a spare suit and a set of more casual clothes, both belonging to Kevin Flynn. Sam ignores the suit, and grabs instead the dark jeans and black t-shirt bearing the "Flynn's Arcade" logo.

"Here," he says, tossing Tron the pile of fabric and turning aside to give him privacy—not volunteering to help him work out how to get out of the strange full-body-leotard look he seems to have going. "Change into these. I've got a phone call to make.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

It's past midnight when Alan's pager sounds, and the number that scrolls across the screen gives him pause. The arcade. Again.

He knows, even before he hauls his tired body out of bed, that it's Sam paging him this time. He doesn't resent the interruption tonight. He wasn't sleeping anyway.

He drives through midnight-quiet streets, threads through busier traffic on the main thoroughfares, and reaches Flynn's Arcade faster than he expects. He can't fathom why Sam would want Alan to meet him here. He's spent all night trying not to imagine what Sam might find, trying to keep himself from indulging in irrational hopes better ignored. All he's managed is a close brush with insomnia.

He tries the front door and finds it unlocked. Inside, most of the lights are on. Dated music blares through long-neglected overhead speakers, and a hundred machines produce a steady racket of beeps and crashes and clashing, tinny anthems. It's eerie, stepping into this familiar space with all its light and noise, but empty of the swarming crowds that belong here. A vivid flash of memory assails him—the first time he set foot in this arcade, back when Kevin Flynn was just that troublemaker Lora used to date—and suddenly Alan's chest feels tight.

"Thanks for coming." Sam's sudden greeting draws him back to the cacophonous present, and Alan turns to meet serious eyes.

"What is it, Sam?" he asks, trying to downplay his own curiosity and concern as Sam approaches. "Why did you page me?" 

"We need to talk," Sam says with a careless shrug. He stuffs both hands in his pockets, locking Alan in an assessing look for several beats. Then he turns, not for the front door but deeper into the Arcade, towards the back room with its faded 'Employees Only' sign. "Come on. It's more comfortable upstairs."

Kevin Flynn's apartment has remained untouched since the final closing of the police investigation. Nothing but time and settling dust since. But Sam has pulled the coverings off the furniture, revealing the low, massive couch that runs beneath both banks of windows. The cushions look clean enough, and Sam gives Alan a pointed push in the right direction. Alan arches a wry eyebrow at him, but moves to sit. The effort is a little awkward. The couch sits barely above the floor, and Alan's not as spry as he used to be. 

"I feel like I should offer you a beer," Sam mutters as he lowers himself with a careless thump. He lands near Alan, on the far section of the couch. "But the fridge isn't even hooked up, let alone stocked. No liquor stores open at this hour."

Alan can sense the hesitation in Sam's demeanor. The boy isn't actively stalling, but he's shying from something. Whatever it is, Alan guesses it's probably a doozy. Sam wouldn't have called him out here in the middle of the night for nothing. 

Alan waits a moment. Then another. When the silence persists, he sits forward and braces his elbows on his knees.

"Sam." He says it softly. He doesn't have to say anything else. 

Sam's expression turns sheepish, and he looks away.

"This is going to sound absolutely nuts," Sam admits, staring down at his own hands. "But hear me out before you say anything, okay? What I'm about to tell you is completely, one hundred percent true, and I need you to get that before we even start."

"I'm listening," Alan says. Then he shuts up and waits, somber and expectant.

The story Sam tells him is the craziest thing Alan's ever heard. Lasers, computer systems, digital landscapes. It all sounds a little too familiar, though less cryptic than any of the excited gibberish Kevin Flynn ever spouted. Sam is taking it slow and patient, taking the time to explain, like he needs Alan to understand before he can ask Alan to believe him. 

Every word is less plausible than the last, but Alan doesn't interrupt. There's something raw in Sam's earnest voice, an exhausted gravel Alan barely recognizes. By the time Sam explains the ISOs—"Dad's miracle," he says with startling softness—Alan's head is spinning six ways from Sunday. 

The implications are staggering. Physical form into digital space sounds mind boggling enough, but _this_. Spontaneous life— _intelligence_ —it's like nothing Alan has ever fathomed. Suddenly a whole lot of the crazy things Kevin said before he disappeared come very close to making sense.

He knows, even before Sam reaches the big finale, that this isn't a happy ending. It's unbelievable enough that Sam found his father on the Grid in the first place. If Kevin Flynn had made it out again, back into the real world where he belongs, then he'd be sitting right here beside them. Sam must sense the direction of Alan's thoughts—or maybe they're just inevitable—because he tapers off and locks Alan with a sad, knowing look. Alan hates the sight of such tired regret on so young a face. 

"Dad's gone," Sam says. His voice is tight with emotion, but his composure holds. "For real this time. He kicked off reintegration to buy us enough time, and... Boom. It was cataclysmic. He didn't make it out with me."

"I'm sorry, Sam." Alan reaches for Sam without thinking. He clasps Sam's shoulder tightly, as much to ground himself as to steady the young man still watching him with an unreadable expression. Sam leans fractionally in to the touch, barely acknowledging before looking uncertainly away.

"No," Sam says quietly. "It's all right." A pause, a careful inhale, then Sam's eyes shine straight at him and Alan's hand falls away. "I'd give anything to have him back, but at least I know what happened now. It's more than I ever figured on having."

"Sam," Alan says helplessly.

"You were right," Sam interrupts, determined. "About everything. All that stuff you said, about how he'd never just leave like that. I should've listened." 

"You were just a kid," Alan protests. 

"Yeah." Sam shrugs. "Still." 

A pause settles, slow and aching between them, leaving Alan with a familiar helpless feeling. He wants to undo every hurt Sam Flynn has ever suffered, and he can't even figure out how to put 'sorry about your dad' into words that won't bring them both further down. Alan can't let himself think about Kevin right now. Knowing the truth is a relief, but it's also permanent. There's no unwriting this story or hoping for a better ending, and Alan will have to work out goodbye on his own time. He can't afford to get stuck in his own mourning when Sam so clearly needs him.

It's Sam who finally speaks again, a dry humor in his voice that sounds only the slightest bit forced.

"The good news is, you don't have to take my word for it."

"For what?" Alan asks uncertainly.

"For anything. All this crazy bullshit. You don't have to take it on faith." 

Alan shakes his head and says, "Sam, you don't have to prove anything to me."

"Still." Sam stands smoothly, unfolding himself from the low couch. "I've got some people for you to meet."

Alan stares in startled confusion.

"People?" he echoes dumbly. 

Before he can ask for clarification, the far door opens and a young woman in a leather jacket steps through. Her hair is short and straight and black, and the contrast to her pale skin is striking. Politeness compels Alan to stand, though he rises less gracefully than Sam. he faces the newcomer, trying to keep the raw surprise off his face.

"Alan," Sam says, genuine amusement quirking up at one side of his mouth, "This is Quorra." No further explanation, but then, Alan's pretty sure he follows. Sam just finished telling him all about the Grid—all about Quorra, and Kevin, Clu and Tron—and Alan can make the final jump of logic from there. However Sam made it out of that computer system, he was able to bring a passenger along with him. The last ISO. Kevin Flynn would have been proud. Alan's just glad for the opportunity to meet the woman who helped keep Sam alive.

Alan extends his hand, gives a smile that he hopes conveys his gratitude, and says, "It's an honor." 

Quorra smiles at him with pleased warmth, and accepts the offered handshake. 

"Likewise," she says. "It's wonderful to finally meet you, Alan." Alan gives Sam a quick, surprised look at that, but Sam just shrugs with an uncharacteristically quiet smile. 

Alan blames the late hour, the recent revelations—even the unfathomable strangeness of everything that's happened tonight—for the fact that he doesn't notice another person has joined them until someone steps right into the space between himself and Sam. The newcomer has entered the room so quietly that Alan physically startles at the sudden presence, and when Alan shifts his attention to the new face he almost does a double take. It's only decades of board meetings and diplomacy that keep his expression calm at the unexpected— _impossible_ —sight before him. It's a face he'd have seen in his own mirror twenty-some years past. Completely uncanny. 

The silver lining is, he sees an expression of equal, if not greater shock on the too familiar face as they stare at each other. The moment doesn't last long before surprise smoothes into a careful, guarded look. 

"I suppose technically you already know each other," Sam says in a soft, weirdly reverent tone that Alan barely recognizes. "But let me introduce you anyway. Alan Bradley, this is Tron." 

It takes Alan several seconds to pick his jaw up off the floor, and several seconds more to find his voice. Eventually he manages a shaken, "How?" 

"Dad ported him over from the old Encom mainframe," Sam says, mouth curling into a smile. "Tron saved our butts in there tonight."

"Well. I'll be damned," Alan murmurs. He has to make a concerted effort to get his limbs moving again, but he takes the initiative, grabbing Tron's hand and giving it a firm shake. "Glad to meet you, Tron."

Tron doesn't speak, but he inclines his head to acknowledge the greeting. An uncanny brightness flashes in familiar eyes, as Alan releases Tron's hand and takes a step back.

"So." Sam claps loudly, breaking the strange tension that's overtaken the dusty room. "The tricky part is, what do we do now?"

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Sam still has the keys to the arcade in his pocket, and after shutting everything back down he locks up. It looks like no one's even been here, and somehow that seems wrong. After so much change—after the way Sam's world has been upended—the place should look different. It shouldn't still look like an empty shell.

Alan offers his own place as a practical alternative to Sam's tiny freight box of an apartment. Alan's house has space, actual food and enough beds to accommodate everyone. Sam immediately agrees, and they split up for the drive. Quorra climbs onto the back of Sam's bike, wrapping her arms around him and holding on tight. Sam waits until Alan's car pulls away from the curb—Alan at the wheel, Tron in the front passenger seat—before gunning his own engine and pulling out.

Sam takes a couple shortcuts, drives faster than he should. He and Quorra pull into Alan's tree-shadowed driveway well ahead of schedule. Sam glances at his watch when the motion-activated lights kick on. Three a.m. He feels like he hasn't slept in a week, but adrenaline is still knocking around in his blood, amping him up and making him impatient for Alan to arrive.

He tries to imagine what it must be like in Alan's car right now, but his mind comes up with a great big, useless blank.

"Come on, this way." He leaves his bike at the left edge of the drive, far enough over not to block the way. He keys in the passcode for Alan's garage door, a number he's had memorized since Alan bought this place, not long after Sam's fifteenth birthday. 

He leads the way inside, and then it's just a few minutes' wait, tight with exhausted energy and trying not to seem anxious. Quorra must sense his impatience. She keeps giving him lopsided smiles as they wait in Alan's kitchen, perched on the tall stools that bookend the island counter. 

The rumble of a car engine finally breaks into the quiet, and Sam is on his feet again before he hears the rattling slide of the garage door coming back down.

There's something strangely domestic about settling Tron and Quorra into two of Alan's three guest rooms. Sam doesn't even know if programs sleep the way humans do. He's pretty sure they eat. He remembers an eerily sedate dinner with his father on the Grid, and more recently he's pretty sure Quorra enjoyed the glass of orange juice Sam put in front of her while they waited in Alan's kitchen. But beyond that, he has no idea. 

The third guest room isn't really a guest room, Sam realizes with surprise. It was _his_ room when he was still an unpredictable teenager—a place Alan told him flat-out belonged to him if he ever needed it, if he ever wanted somewhere to hide or just stay for a while. Sam hasn't actually been inside Alan's house in the last couple years. He hadn't realized the room was still his. But the few possessions Sam left here remain undisturbed—the books stacked haphazardly on the bureau, the t-shirts in the very top drawer—even the brown backpack he carried to school right up until he got his driver's license. 

Alan doesn't say anything, so Sam keeps his mouth shut. It doesn't seem right to put this particular gratitude into words.

Eventually, it's just Alan and Sam and the thin sliver of night that remains. There are four balconies on the second floor—most of them exiting off of bedrooms—but the largest is attached to Alan's office. They stand on this balcony as the heavy darkness gradually lightens.

"We need to talk about Encom," Sam says, clasping his hands together and leaning forward to brace his arms on the railing. "You're going to help me take the company back." He can feel Alan's stare boring into the side of his head, and he can imagine the quiet shock on Alan's face. Sam looks straight out over Alan's back yard, the wide lawn and tall trees, shadows gaining color with the approaching dawn. In a couple places, a smooth edge of neighboring rooftop lifts out of the foliage beyond, casting stark silhouettes against the lightening sky.

"What about the Board?" Alan asks in a cautious voice.

"Not a problem." Sam makes himself turn and meet Alan's eyes. He's relieved to find no skepticism on Alan's face. Just a tiny smile, an edge of hesitant hope. Sam feels his own smile gain strength as he adds, "You're chairman now."

Alan blinks in surprise, then laughs an exhausted but genuine laugh. Direct sunlight finally blinks over the edge of the tree line, and the timing is so perfect Sam snickers.

"You know it's not _quite_ that easy," Alan says, but his voice is light and he's obviously pleased.

"Then let's go to Encom and _make_ it that easy," Sam counters stubbornly. He turns from the balcony's edge and nudges Alan with an elbow on his way back inside. "Come on. Let's see if I still remember how to work your cappuccino machine. We'll need some fortification if we're going to get this ball rolling today." 

He considers checking in on Quorra and Tron, but in the end just leaves a note in the kitchen. If they're sleeping, he doesn't want to disturb them, and anyway, he's sure they'll be able to stay out of trouble for at least one day. 

Alan dons a fresh suit. Sam takes the quickest shower of his life and puts on yesterday's clothes. He follows Alan through the front hall and into the garage.

"We'll need to make a quick stop at my place," he says as he slides into Alan's passenger seat. "Gotta let Marvin out and grab a change of clothes." He doesn't plan on prettying up much. Suits are for people more professional than him; he's not quite ready to take that leap. But he'd just as soon not face the board wearing the pants he got arrested in last night, all things considered. He'll feel a whole lot more confident when he's wearing clean laundry again. Being digitized and re-constituted hasn't made him smell any fresher.

"You got it," Alan says, and backs down the driveway.

Sam grins, already bracing himself for the fight of his life.


	5. Trying Times

Early as the day starts, it runs endlessly on as Sam follows Alan through the maze of announcing his intentions towards Encom. The media kicks up the wildest storm he's in twenty years—who knew taking over a publicly held company actually counted as news—but Sam doesn't answer a single one of their questions. Alan won't let him.

"Strategy, Sam. We get the official press release out first, make sure your plan is laid out directly and clearly. Later you'll do a proper press conference, a couple interviews... Give them more to work with, but do it on _our_ schedule."

"Jesus, is all that really necessary?" 

"Yes. And more," Alan says in a consoling tone. "But you'll do fine. For now, let's just get this ball rolling."

Sam _has_ experienced longer days, but not very many of them. The sun sets, and dinner is Vietnamese takeout. Another two hours pass before Sam is finally slumping into the elevator beside Alan, riding down towards the executive parking level beneath the building. 

"Thank god," Sam breathes when he slips into the passenger seat of Alan's car. He's suddenly grateful he didn't drive in to Encom alone this morning; he's not awake enough to ride his bike across town. They detour to Sam's apartment to let Marvin out, and the extra time on his feet is pretty much torture; the last thing Sam wants to be doing right now is standing upright. By the time they reach Alan's house, Sam has zoned out to the point of numbness, and he enters without a word.

A note on the fridge announces that Quorra is out and admonishes Sam not to worry: she'll be home before midnight, just wants to take a look around, knows how to stay out of trouble. Sam decides he'll hold off until tomorrow to panic. It seems a reasonable compromise.

Meanwhile, he should probably check in on Tron. Sam's goodnight to Alan is little more than an exhausted nod, and then he climbs the stairs and taps on the door to Tron's room. There's no answer, so Sam reaches for the knob and opens the door just far enough to stick his head inside. Nothing—empty guest room—though the denting of the comforter suggests Tron may indeed have slept last night. Sam opens the door wider and steps through, not worried yet, but definitely relieved when he finds the sliding glass door on the far wall open. He's too tired to go hunting for Tron in the nooks and crannies of Alan's enormous house. 

Sam closes the bedroom door behind him before crossing the narrow room and stepping outside. The air is light with windy chill, making him shiver in his thin cotton shirtsleeves. A wide swath of moon shines in a clear, dark sky.

Tron stands at the balcony's edge, staring up at the moon, strong hands curled around the guardrail. He's still wearing Kevin Flynn's old clothes, the arcade t-shirt, the tight jeans. He looks out of place, too stiff for the borrowed attire. His posture, ramrod straight and looming with strength, makes Sam think of bright lines and dark uniforms. They'll need to find him something else to wear—something that's a better fit for the somber figure standing before Sam in the moonlight.

Tron barely moves to acknowledge Sam's approach, and Sam feels almost unnoticed when he stops at the guardrail himself. He leans forward, bracing his forearms on cool metal, and follows Tron's gaze up to the moon.

Sam stands there for long minutes, holding his silence as soundly as Tron guards his own. The quiet is too expectant for comfort, but Sam doesn't think he's imagining the sense of companionship that settles between them just the same. He's missed Tron, even if he did have himself convinced the Grid wasn't real.

Eventually, tired and suddenly impatient, Sam mutters, "Long fuckin' day."

The assertion draws Tron's attention, but still he doesn't reply. The two simply regard each other in silence for several more minutes, until finally Sam works up the nerve to ask, "Is it that you _can't_ speak, or do you just not want to?"

Tron blinks, and there's startled confusion in his voice when he answers, "Of course I can speak." His voice is so familiar—is such a relief—that Sam's knees go shaky beneath him.

"You're tired," Tron says abruptly. "You should not be standing out here in the cold."

Sam murmurs something in half-hearted protest, but he doesn't resist when Tron grabs him by the arm and bullies him back inside. Tron steers him past the chair in the corner, then shoves Sam unceremoniously down on the edge of the bed. Tron doesn't sit, but he watches with an unreadable expression as Sam kicks off his shoes and then shifts back to sit against the headboard.

He returns Tron's watchful stare, and another strange silence enfolds them. They're scrutinizing each other blatantly, both remembering, maybe. Sam wonders how he must look, a grown man after so many lost years.

"It's good to see you again," Sam finally says. It feels weak, but some of the intensity loosens from Tron's features. Sam knows how to read that face, so similar to Alan's on the surface, yet so different in its expressions, its defaults, its tells. It's been twenty years, sure, but Sam spent a whole lot of time hero-worshipping the man (program) standing before him now. He doesn't think there's a single thing about Tron he could forget if he tried, especially with the stark reality of him standing here in the flesh.

"For Christ's sake, would you sit?" Sam mutters, exasperated. He nods towards the space beside him. There's plenty of room for both of them against the headboard, especially when Sam slides over to make space. Tron does as he requests with barely any hesitation. He shifts into place on the mattress, bumping Sam's arm as he settles.

"So where'd Quorra go?" Sam asks, slouching tiredly, having no care for his lazy posture or drooping eyes. "Saw her note. I'm not sure whether or not I should be terrified."

"She didn't say."

Of course she didn't, Sam thinks. Tron probably didn't even ask. Exhaustion sings in Sam's blood, makes him want to scoot down the bed and sprawl out, let his eyes finish slipping closed instead of struggling to stay conscious. 

"Are you okay?" Sam fends off exhaustion for a few minutes longer and looks directly at Tron.

A split second of alarm crosses Tron's face. But it blanks quickly, and turns once again into a careful mask of guarded neutrality. That's a no, then. Sam sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

"Maybe I can help," he tries. "Is it... Are you hurt? Or is it something else?"

"I'm not hurt." 

Sam hesitates, but makes himself follow through. "So something's bothering you."

A different look crosses Tron's face now, softer shadows, and he says, "Now is not that time, Sam Flynn. You should rest." He doesn't volunteer to help Sam to his room, or stand to escort him to the door. Frankly, Sam is grateful. The thought of finding his feet right now sounds awful. He's already slouched so far down the headboard he's practically overtaken Tron's bed.

"Prob'ly right," Sam murmurs as he succumbs to the inevitable. He scoots the rest of the way down and breathes a relieved sigh as his head hits Tron's pillow.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Alan could settle in to work at the desk in his study, but somehow it's just easier to spread out in the kitchen instead. The kitchen table is a tall, sprawling affair, half again as long as the desk he works from upstairs. More importantly, working in the kitchen puts him right within reach of the coffee maker, which he sets to percolating even before Sam has disappeared upstairs.

By the time the first pot has finished brewing, Alan has covered nearly the entire surface of the table with reports, contracts, folders from HR, and two separate copies of Encom's bylaws. He also has his laptop plugged in, sitting on the corner nearest his chair, and his iPad close by displaying half a dozen spreadsheets. He's grateful for the smell of coffee filling the kitchen, even more grateful when he carries a full mug back to the table and takes his first sip. He takes his coffee black, and the flavor across his tongue does almost as much to wake him as the caffeine will when it hits his system.

This won't be the first all-nighter Alan has pulled in the name of Encom, but it's been a while. All the harder after last night's near lack of sleep. He won't ask Sam to step in and help tonight—not after seeing him so dead on his feet as Alan nudged him through the door. Besides, Sam doesn't have the experience yet. 

Alan will get him up to speed quickly enough; Sam demonstrated the right instincts today, andAlan's got no doubts about his ability to take back Encom and turn it around for the better. 

In the meantime, Sam's done his part. The rest—the mess spread in intimidating piles across the kitchen table—is Alan's job, and he's got no intention of letting Sam down.

Accustomed as he is to late nights and endless paperwork, Alan isn't paying much attention to anything else when the rumble of the garage startles him, followed by a click and muted slam of the front hall door. 

He shifts in his seat, glancing over his shoulder just as Quorra emerges into the kitchen. She carries her black leather jacket slung over one shoulder, and her bare arms are strikingly pale as she steps into the brightly lit kitchen. A perpetual half-smile curls at one corner of her mouth, and she seems surprised to find him awake.

"Welcome back," Alan says, setting his pen aside. He uses his toe to nudge out the chair adjacent to his own and tilts his head towards it. 

Quorra's smile brightens. She drapes her coat over the back of the chair and sits with comfortable ease, quick eyes darting across the wide-spreading chaos of papers. She hovers one hand over a stack of contracts, as though curious, but doesn't touch them. Eventually she settles both hands in her lap instead, and meets Alan's eyes. 

He can only imagine what a sight he must make, slouched across his work with one hand propped beneath his head, free hand grasping a half full mug of coffee like a lifeline. He discarded his tie and his suit jacket somewhere along the way, and can't be bothered to wonder where they've gotten to.

"You look busy," Quorra says brightly, and Alan can't help thinking it's unfair of her to have such energy at this hour.

"Oh, you know. Restructuring a Fortune 500 company, staging a hostile takeover of the existing board of directors, it's no big deal really." It's a huge deal, and Alan will do without sleep for a week if he has to, if that's what it takes to make this happen. 

Quorra laughs, and quiet as the sound is it's also warm with genuine amusement. Alan finds himself smiling at the mirth in her eyes, pleased to see how very much at ease she seems. Even Sam knows little about her, from what he told Alan, but there's no question that she's family. She's special. 

"What have you been up to?" Alan asks, straightening from his slouch and then, when that goes all right, standing to refill his mug. He pulls a second mug out of the cupboard above the coffee maker, pours a cup for her after topping off his own. 

"Exploring," Quorra says brightly. Her eyes follow Alan as he returns to the table, and she reaches out careful hands to accept the hot mug Alan hands her. "I hope it's all right, I used your computer this morning. Research. But there was too much I needed to see for myself."

"I've got my desktop machine password protected." Alan arches an eyebrow as he reclaims his seat. 

Quorra looks sheepish, though not particularly chastened, and Alan snorts an amused laugh. He watches her raise the barely cooled mug of coffee and take a tentative sip. Her nose wrinkles, her eyes narrow, and Alan laughs aloud at the ambivalent look she gives the drink in her hands. 

"It's okay if you don't like it," he says as she takes another sip. "Coffee's an acquired taste. You could try it with cream and sugar. Or I could get you something else." 

"No." Her expression has gone pensive, and she's staring at the coffee with fierce focus. "I should give it a chance."

"Well. If you change your mind." Alan raises his own mug in a mock toast, then takes a long, slow sip. When he sets it down again, he finds Quorra watching him over the rim of her own mug. "So," he says softly, "what did you think of the city?"

Her face lights immediately at the question, perfect teeth behind a wide grin, a vivid glint in her eyes. There's something strangely innocent in the obvious excitement. Alan would never describe her as childlike, but there's so little self-consciousness in her amazement. There's only a wild, unguarded appreciation as she sets down her drink and begins to talk.

"It was beautiful," she says in an almost hushed tone. "It's like it goes on forever, and it's only _one city_ , and there are so many others! I've never seen so much light and color and noise before." She tries to explain, tries to tell him about the Grid, the bright glare of the streets in contrast to the constant darkness of the sky. He finds it impossible to conjure the images she's describing. His mind just keeps offering up memories of midnight skylines or Las Vegas. He's got no point of reference. But he doesn't protest. He has no desire to quiet her excitement. 

There's something impossibly endearing in Quorra's display of awe, and Alan finds himself grinning despite his over-caffeinated fatigue.

"Are you hungry?" he asks when eventually she tapers off. He doesn't have the brainpower for anything beyond a couple ham sandwiches, but Quorra doesn't complain about the fare when he sets a plate in front of her. 

"Where's Sam?" she asks around her first bite. 

Some of Alan's amusement banks into worry, and he says, "He needed to talk to Tron." Better if Sam had just gone the hell to bed. Alan can't imagine any unfinished business so urgent it couldn't wait until morning. It bothers him, too, to think that something beyond Alan's comprehension might be troubling Sam. Sam wasn't being intentionally secretive, Alan is sure; but he wasn't particularly forthcoming either. Beyond, ' _I can't sleep yet, I have to talk to Tron_ ,' he didn't say much at all.

Tron confuses Alan just by existing. It's impossible, the reality of him—a security program _Alan wrote_ —existing right here, apparently flesh and blood, wearing Alan's face. Or at least a younger facsimile. Alan's brain hurts when he tries to wrap his head around everything that's happened in the past twenty-four hours, and Tron defies his every attempt at comprehension.

Eventually, with the sandwich dishes cleaned and Quorra gone to her own bed, he decides the mountain of paperwork is as climbed as it's going to get. Alan shuts down his laptop and kills the kitchen lights. He climbs the stairs with minimal creaking, then pauses halfway down the hall, at the door to Sam's bedroom. He hesitates, feeling like an overprotective old fool, but finally raps at the door. No answer. He doesn't hesitate this time, reaching for the knob and opening the door as quietly as he can. The room beyond is dark, but obviously empty. Alan's brow creases with worry at the thought that Sam still hasn't made it to bed. The boy needs sleep.

The next door in line is Tron's guest room. Again no answer comes to Alan's knock, and again Alan reaches for the knob. 

This time, the room behind the door isn't dark and empty. Dim light shines from a bedside lamp, illuminating the sparse furnishings. Alan is startled to find Tron not sleeping, but instead sitting up against the headboard, eyes raised towards the door so that their eyes instantly meet. Alan blinks past his surprise and takes in the rest, Sam sprawled the length of the bed, fast asleep and curled against Tron's side. Tron doesn't look annoyed at Alan's intrusion. He doesn't look much of anything, in fact, though his fingers threading through Sam's hair manage to seem gentle, protective and territorial all at once.

"Sorry," Alan mutters in quiet confusion. "I didn't realize— I just wanted to make sure he got some sleep. I'll just... see you both in the morning, then." 

He closes the door as softly as he opened it, suddenly remembering the story Sam told him on a twenty-first birthday long past. It was a true story, Alan knows now. About Tron and the Grid. He pictures Sam Flynn at four, maybe five years old. He pictures the kind of hero worship, the kind of closeness that must have existed, considering all the times Kevin Flynn took his son inside. 

He thinks of the strange closeness he just witnessed and wonders if maybe it makes sense. Or hell, maybe Alan's just giving too much weight to a scene set by simple exhaustion.

Either way, it's not his business, and he makes for his own bed, too exhausted to give it further thought.


	6. Can't Predict The World

Sam wakes, day two after the Grid, alone in a bed that doesn't belong to him. He feels far more rested than his scant few hours of sleep can justify. 

There's no sign of Tron as Sam emerges from the guest room, but that's not cause enough for worry. Alan's house is enormous, and there are any number of corners Tron could have run off to if he wants to be alone. Considering everything he's been through (considering Clu and whatever he did to turn Tron against everything he stood for), Sam's own life the past twenty years has been cake. He's not going to begrudge Tron the solitude to get his head on straight. 

That morning, Sam takes off solo instead of waiting for Alan to finish his coffee.

"I'll meet you at Encom," he says, clapping Alan on the shoulder on his way past. "Gotta stop at home to change and check on Marvin." Self-sufficient as Marvin's always been, Sam's already feeling guilty. His schedule doesn't usually keep him away for whole days and nights at a stretch. 

Traffic slows him down, and the side trip takes longer than expected. When Sam pulls into the Encom parking garage, he's running a few minutes late. There's no parking stall with his name on it, but fuck it. He takes the stall closest to the elevator—the one with a copper-edged plaque that reads, ' _Richard Mackey_ '. Current Chairman of the Board or not, he won't be needing it much longer. 

Alan meets Sam in the lobby. Ironically (or maybe not ironically at all) Sam still doesn't have the right security clearance to get past the front entrance. He has to follow Alan through the main foyer to the elevator, which carries them quickly to the topmost floor of Encom Tower. 

If yesterday was long and dreary, today is even worse. Alan still won't let Sam talk to any of the reporters clustered outside. He's right—Sam _knows_ he's right—but he can't help the itch to _say something_. The carefully crafted press release will go live today, and meanwhile there's more than enough work to do on the home front. There's an army lawyers, and what seems like every manager in HR to deal with, not to mention the Board of Directors itself. 

Making Alan Chairman involves a whole lot of red tape, and Sam signs so many forms his wrist aches by lunchtime.

It also turns out Sam can't just up and make himself CEO with a snap of his fingers. There are bylaws and procedures and about ten thousand miles of bureaucracy in his way. But he's still the majority shareholder, and Alan will be Chairman of the Board in a short matter of time. If they go through the proper channels, they can make this happen. 

There's a strict chain of command. Sam may not be CEO yet, but he's still right at the top of the food chain.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

After work, Sam stops at his apartment and lingers there, trying to cuddle his way back into Marvin's good graces. By the time he returns to Alan's place, he figures everyone else will be asleep. Instead, it looks like every light on the first floor is burning. He lets himself in through the garage, follows the short hall to the kitchen, and isn't that surprised at what he finds.

Alan is a workaholic at the best of times. It probably figures he's forsaken sleep in order to spread an epic mountain of paperwork across the kitchen table. Sam arches his eyebrows when he catches Alan's eye. Alan raises one right back and doesn't straighten from where he's slouched over his work. He doesn't set down the pen in his hand.

"Would you rather let the board you're overthrowing deal with the minutia?" Alan asks.

"I guess that might not be _the_ smartest strategy, no," Sam concedes. 

"Then brew me another pot of coffee and keep the attitude to yourself." But Alan doesn't sound irritated. Hell, he doesn't sound particularly _tired_ , and Sam wonders at that. Alan's been shouldering way more than his fair share of the legwork in this, and after only two days Sam feels beaten down enough for both of them. He crosses the kitchen, turning his back on Alan just long enough to set the coffeemaker percolating. 

When Sam turns back around around, Alan answers the question Sam hasn't even spoken yet. "They're both in the living room. Last I checked, anyway." 

"Thanks." Sam nudges Alan in the arm on his way past. In the main hall he hears the nearby murmur of the living room television, growing louder and more recognizable with every step. The news is on, though the volume is low. Sam keeps his footsteps deliberately quiet as he rounds the corner and takes in the scene.

Tron sits at the very center of the sofa, perched on the edge of the cushion as though he means to rise at any moment. He's leaning forward, his hands clasped together, elbows propped on his knees as he watches the screen with startling focus. He's changed his clothes, and not into anything from Alan's wardrobe. The outfit Tron is wearing looks like it walked right out of a fashion ad: slate gray trousers and a black turtleneck that fits a little too perfectly, showing off the strong lines of Tron's arms and chest. 

From the television, Sam hears his own name, then a shrill soundbite about the future of Encom, the fluctuating value of company stock. Sam will care about those things tomorrow. He hasn't got the energy for it tonight.

His attention shifts reluctantly away from Tron. In the other corner of the room, Quorra has curled herself into Alan's favorite armchair, a tall-backed leather antique with almost no view of the television. There's a hardcover book in her hand, worn-looking, no dust jacket. If Sam had to guess, he'd go with _The Three Musketeers_. Alan's as meticulous with his books as he is with all his possessions, and it's the only title Sam would guess he's read enough times to wear down. 

Quorra is clearly engrossed. Her knees are tucked up into the chair, her entire body curled forward and her eyes wide, as though she'd crawl straight into the book if she could. Sam can't help grinning at the sight. She doesn't even notice she's being watched.

When Sam's gaze shifts again, he startles to realize that without actually moving, Tron has stopped watching the television and caught Sam with unreadable eyes. Sam tries not to feel like a creep for not announcing his presence, and he steps into the living room with a sheepish grin.

"Hey." He rounds the couch to settle onto the far cushion, putting himself between Tron and Quorra. "Sorry. Long day." 

Quorra raises her eyes more quickly than Sam expects, absorbed as she seemed in her book. The smile she offers him is warm, a distinct contrast to the still indecipherable planes of Tron's face. 

"You look tired, Sam," she says. 

"Eh." Sam shrugs. "Fuck it. What've you two been up to today?"

"Exploring. And shopping," Quorra says brightly. Which explains Tron's new threads, and the slightly different outfit Quorra is wearing for that matter. There's more blue in her shirt today. It suits her. 

"What'd you see?"

Tron is silent as ever beside Sam, but his presence is comforting. Sam has spent the day wound tight and on his guard. Exhausted as he is, he spent most of his ride here wondering if he'll even be able to sleep tonight. But he feels better now. Quorra answers with her default exuberance, launching into a narrative that lets Sam's brain off the hook. He settles back into the creaky leather of the couch, easy in his own skin for the first time all day. 

Quorra's voice is rich and amused, Tron's warmth is close at hand, and if Sam closes his eyes for a moment it's not only because he's sleepy.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

By day three, Sam's more than ready to reclaim some semblance of his usual routine.

He walks into Alan's living room at seven p.m. and finds himself surrounded by the surreal sight of Alan, Tron and Quorra all taking up separate spaces of the room, all more or less ignoring each other. Quorra has returned to Alan's customary recliner, a new book in her hands. Alan, ousted from his chair and clearly too polite to say anything about it, has spread a smaller pile of work across the coffee table and settled with his laptop at one end of the couch. Tron sits at the opposite end of the couch with Alan's iPad, typing quickly with one hand, though not so engrossed that he doesn't pause and raise his eyes when Sam enters the room.

"Right," Sam says. "Good. Everyone's already here." He feels like he's about to deliver some grand proclamation, rather than the simple pronouncement that he's going to sleep in his own damn bed tonight unless anyone is strongly opposed to the idea. 

"What is it, Sam?" Quorra raises her eyes from her book.

"See, this whole ongoing slumber party thing has been fun," Sam starts, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand in a self-conscious gesture, "but my dog's on the verge of disowning me, and I'm overdue for a solid night's sleep in my own bed. So I was thinking about going back to my place tonight." He hesitates, guilty for no good reason, his gaze darting back and forth between Quorra and Tron. "I mean. Assuming everyone's cool with that. I'd take you both with me, but my apartment's basically a two-story crate with one bed and a couch." 

"I'm sure we'll cope somehow," Alan says without raising his eyes. Wry fondness colors the words.

"I can start looking tomorrow," Sam says, shifting his attention to Alan. "For a bigger place, I mean."

"Sam." Alan finally looks up from his work and locks Sam with a firm stare, softened by exasperated amusement. "There's no hurry. I don't need four bedrooms to myself, and I'm a little too busy right now to expect other company." Sam easily interprets Alan's underlying meaning: Quorra and Tron aren't an imposition—at least, not an unwelcome one—and Alan's happy to put them up for as long as Sam needs. The way Alan is looking at him now (like Sam's still a little boy and Alan would do damn near anything for him) makes Sam suspect Quorra and Tron are likely to get restless long before Alan's bluff is called. 

"Thanks, man," Sam says, too grateful to try and put it into any more words than that.

"Will you stay for dinner?" Alan asks, eyes dropping once more to his work.

"Honestly? I'm beat. I think I'm just going to head home and crash." Sam's eyes are on Tron as he says this, and for an instant he thinks he catches a glint of disapproval in Tron's eyes. The flash is gone too suddenly for Sam to be sure he really saw it, and when he meets Quorra's eyes she's giving him an unworried smile.

"Sam, go ahead. Seriously. We'll be fine." She makes a conspicuous point of settling deeper into Alan's chair and going back to her book. Sam spares one more glance around the room, eyes lighting briefly on each of the three occupants.

He feels Tron's eyes follow him all the way out the door.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

On the Grid, in the Outlands with Flynn, Quorra was used to the regular rhythm of a rigid schedule. In exile, with nowhere to go and a veritable eternity before them, a firm routine was perhaps the only way Kevin Flynn retained his sanity.

After the last ripples of Clu's purge died out—after the resistance was finally crushed and nothing remained but Clu's unrelenting rule—Quorra would venture out alone. She would explore. She took risks Flynn would never approve of, though she always returned safely to their hideaway. 

She's always been too much the explorer to sit completely still.

But even then, venturing out at every chance, Quorra kept herself to Flynn's routine. She would return by dinner. She would read with him, discuss his books, learn everything she could from the powerful mind that had created the very world. They existed cycle by cycle, and Quorra grew accustomed to a life of rigid contours. It was what Flynn needed, and Quorra didn't mind.

Outside the Grid, in Alan Bradley's home, she finds the world entirely different. There's no set time for anything, least of all meals. Alan welcomes her to his small library (Quorra's favorite room in the entire house), and neither he nor Sam makes any effort to restrict her movements. She reads wary caution in both men's eyes, but in the three days since escaping the Grid no one has tried to dissuade her explorations of this new and exciting world. 

Somehow the thing she finds strangest, or at least most difficult to adapt to in those short three days, is the lack of structured routine. Even when Alan is home, there's no certainty. And during the day, when it's only Quorra and Tron, she has to remind herself to eat lest she get distracted. It's a strange balance compared to the life she's known.

Tonight, after Sam's brief appearance and unnecessary excuses (Quorra doesn't begrudge Sam Flynn his own home, his own bed, his own rescue to take care of), it's nearly nine o'clock when Alan sets aside his paperwork and raises his eyes.

"Dinner?" he asks. "I think Lucky's delivers until ten."

"That sounds lovely," Quorra agrees, though she hasn't the first clue what kind of food Lucky's serves. She still hasn't warmed to drinking her coffee black—she adds both cream and sugar when she drinks the stuff at all—but her adventurous spirit more than covers the endless variety of food this world has to offer. 

"No," Tron says, setting aside the iPad and standing abruptly. "Thank you." Three words: the most Quorra has heard from him at a time. From the way Alan's eyebrows rise on his forehead, it's the first he's heard Tron speak at all. Tron doesn't offer an explanation for his refusal. He just nods politely and leaves the room, disappearing down the hall so silently Quorra can't even tell which direction he's gone.

Alan's eyes find her, but Quorra just gives a helpless shrug and smile. She's grateful to Tron for helping them on the Grid. She knows what he means to Sam—what he meant to Kevin before everything fell apart. But that doesn't mean she has the first clue what's going on in his head now. She's completely floored by this world herself; she can't imagine what it must be like for Tron.

Alan pulls his laptop towards him and taps a handful of keys.

"You can come take a look at the menu before I call," he says, giving her a quick glance before returning his eyes to the screen. "It shouldn't take them long to deliver at this hour."

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

In three days, this is the closest Alan has come to a normal dinner hour—not that he tends to worry about proper meals when there's work to be done. The whole house feels quieter with Sam absent, though he quickly learns Quorra doesn't need much motivation to break that quiet with pleasant chatter.

Halfway through her manicotti, she gives him a sheepish smile over her fork and says, "You can tell me if I'm talking too much. I won't be offended."

"I don't— You— What?" Alan blinks at her in startled bafflement. For one thing, it would be ungracious to tell his dinner guest to stop talking. For another, he enjoys Quorra's conversation far too much to suggest she keep her thoughts to herself. "Why on earth would you say that?"

The look she gives him is as guileless and uncomplicated as Alan's ever seen, and suddenly he believes her, that she really _wouldn't_ be offended if he asked her to talk less. The revelation doesn't help him understand why she felt the need to say it in the first place. 

"I don't mean it in a bad way," she explains in a patient voice. "On the Grid, for such a long time it was just Flynn and me. And sometimes he would want to be distracted, or at least want someone to talk to, but other times he just needed quiet. I'm... not very good at quiet. It took a long time before I was able to tell without him having to ask. I figure, if _you_ needed quiet, you might not know how to say so." 

Alan can't help the disbelieving smile that edges across his face. 

"Unbelievable," he says with a shake of his head. "You two must've made quite a team." The thought sobers him—the realization of how well the two must have known each other—and then right on its heels comes the thought of just how long they had no one but each other to rely on. "Twenty years," he murmurs, not actually intending to speak the words aloud but too tired to stop them. 

At least Quorra doesn't look offended. If anything her expression turns more considering.

"What is it?" Alan asks softly. 

Her face, open and honest as always, settles with decision, and she says, "Time works differently on the Grid." 

"Differently how?"

"It just feels different. Passes more slowly. Before Clu's takeover, the reason Flynn was able to accomplish so much was that he could spend hours or days at a time in the system, while far less time passed in the world outside." 

"What are you saying?" Alan sets his fork down, and his brow knits as he tries to work this through rationally. "Are you telling me you and Kevin were trapped for _more_ than twenty years?" Two decades is mind boggling enough. The thought that Kevin Flynn may have experienced an even longer exile makes Alan's heart ache all the worse. "How much time are we actually talking here?"

Quorra pauses, the barest flicker of hesitation in her eyes, but answers, "Flynn told me that a minute in your world equates to roughly an hour inside the system. That means a single year topside comes out to sixty years as experienced on the Grid." 

Alan stares, staggered, already running the numbers in his head. It's been twenty-one years since Kevin went missing.

"My god," he breathes. "That's more than twelve-hundred years. How did he stay _sane_?" Christ, Alan can't even begin to wrap his head around what that must have been like. He feels suddenly guilty for every awful, self-indulgent time he's let himself be angry for the loss of his best friend. How much worse must it have been, trapped inside a closed computer system with no way out and nothing to do but accept a passage of time that felt like eternity?

"Meditation mostly," Quorra answers. "Hence the quiet. He studied a hundred philosophies, took what he could from them, learned to wait and exist apart from his anger. It was the only way to survive."

"And what about you?" Alan asks softly, surprising himself—apparently surprising Quorra, too, as she blinks wide eyes at him for a wordless moment. 

"He was my friend," she says finally. "And the waiting... I think it was easier for me. I'd never known a world beyond the Grid, and everything I'd lost..." She tapers off, expression clouding over. "There was no one waiting for me. No one for me to let down. There was just him. In a way, that was enough." 

Alan has a hundred questions that he's not sure he wants answered. He wants a clearer picture. He craves closure, and he knows (he _knows_ ) it's selfish of him. He suspects Quorra would try to answer his questions if he found words for them. But he also senses that it would be painful for her. For all her energy, her exuberance, her open eyes and generous smiles—for all the hope and fondness Alan sees whenever she looks at Sam—he's caught glimpses of the moments between. He's seen a distance in her eyes when she thinks no one is watching—when she's between books, between distractions—an unmistakable sadness that's all wrong on her features. 

Closure or not, it's been twenty years since Alan lost Kevin Flynn. Quorra lost him only three days ago. And the fleeting but unmistakable mourning in her eyes makes Alan swallow back every heartbroken curiosity. He won't be the one to cause unnecessary hurt.

"He always said you were his best friend," Quorra says, some of the shadows clearing from her expression. She's not quite smiling, but it's close. "He said you were the one person he could always trust. That you never once let him down. I think it comforted him, knowing that you would be there for Sam." 

Christ, if that's not a kick to the kidneys. Alan's eyes burn, though it's been years since he actually cried. He prays he's lived up to the faith Kevin put in him. God knows he's tried. He can't seem to find anything to say in response now; Quorra's words have hit him too deeply. Even if he knew what to say, he very much doubts his voice would let him speak. 

"Sam was right about you, too," Quorra says, a lighter note in her voice. Her gaze has shifted down to her plate, giving him space as she changes the subject. 

"Sam?" 

"He said you would believe him about the Grid." 

"Sam's a good kid," Alan says immediately. "He would never lie about something so important." 

"Sure." Quorra shrugs. When she raises her eyes, there's a teasing glint in them. "But from what I understand, it's a pretty crazy story. Most people would need proof."

"How do you know I didn't?" Alan counters, mostly for the sake of argument. " _You're_ proof, aren't you? And Tron... What other explanation could there be for him?" It still catches Alan off guard sometimes, surreal moments, the uncanny resemblance. His own face, youthful and guarded, looking at him with eyes Alan can't decipher. 

"But it's not Tron. And it's not me." Quorra's stare is knowing, her voice steady and sure. "You believe it because of Sam. You'd believe him even without us." 

Alan won't argue otherwise. He _had_ believed, even before all the unexpected introductions. 

With abrupt brightness, Quorra sets aside her utensils and sits back in her chair.

"Tell me about you," she demands. 

"Me," Alan echoes dumbly.

"Yes. You. I've been living in your house for three days, and almost everything I know about you is twenty years out of date." 

"There's not much to tell," Alan hedges, suddenly self-conscious. "I still work at Encom, obviously. Sometimes it seems like I've been working there my whole life. Since Kevin disappeared, I've mostly been trying to keep it in one piece for Sam." 

"What about your family?" Quorra presses. "Kevin told me about human families. He said last he knew you were engaged to be married." 

An old pang tightens in Alan's chest, but long practice keeps any hint of it from his face. He just offers a rueful smile and shakes his head.

"That didn't really pan out," he admits. There are a hundred explanations, all of them true. He and Lora had been drifting even before Kevin disappeared. Long distance was a struggle for both of them, though Alan could never begrudge her the opportunity that took her away. She wasn't the only one who wanted to focus on a career first. But it was worse after Kevin disappeared. Too many other distractions demanded Alan's attention. There was too much riding on his shoulders with his best friend and business partner gone. Sam was the heaviest weight of all, though Alan wouldn't trade him for anything. In the end there was just too much. Something had to give. By the time he realized what he was losing, Lora was long gone and it was years too late to change his mind.

"Encom doesn't leave room for much else," he says finally, sensing that _some_ explanation is necessary. It sounds sad when he puts it that way, so he adds, "Besides, I've got Sam." He doesn't know how to put into words that Sam's always been his highest priority. He's always told himself that it's enough, and most of the time it's even been true. He certainly means it now. Whatever sacrifices he's made along the way, he'd make them all again without a second thought. 

The quiet that falls between them stretches longer this time, though it's a comfortable enough quiet. Considering. Not familiar, exactly, but not unpleasant either. At last it's Quorra who breaks the silence.

"I'm glad I finally got to meet you, Alan Bradley," she says. "I hope we can be friends."

Alan smiles, the heavy weight of their conversation lifting from his shoulders, and says, "I'd like that very much."

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

When Sam comes home, Marvin is obviously still not happy with him.

Sam does his best to make it clear he's not going anywhere tonight, but his efforts don't make much difference. In retrospect, he wishes he'd just packed Marvin up and taken him to Alan's with them. Marvin may be a neurotic little guy, but he'd probably have taken the change in location better than he has Sam's prolonged absence over the past three days. He's reasonably sure he used to have three pillows in the corner of his couch; he can't fathom what Marvin has done with them in his ire, but he does find about half a pillow's worth of stuffing in the corner by the fridge.

"I'm sorry, okay?" Sam says, picking Marvin up and settling on the couch. "I'll make it up to you." 

Marvin just gives him a petulant look. Sam sighs and pets him behind the ears.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep on the couch. Hell, it's not even that late. But the past three days haven't been the most restful of Sam's life. He's not surprised to wake and find himself awkwardly reclined along the length of the couch. Sore, yes; surprised no. There's an epic crick in his neck, and he mutters curses under his breath as he sits up. Marvin, asleep on his chest (maybe Sam's finally been forgiven) wakes and shifts with his movements, hopping down to the couch and then to the floor. 

Sam's narrow living room feels claustrophobic after Alan's guest bedroom. He's not going to open the garage door that constitutes the front wall at this hour—three a.m. according to the clock on top of the fridge—but it still rankles him a little. He doesn't like the sense of something _off_ , just from being alone in his own space. This isn't how being at home is supposed to make him feel.

He breathes another string of curses as he stands stiffly from the couch. The boots he never bothered to take off squeak noisily on the floor.

"G'night, Marv," he mutters. Marvin crawls into his own bed beneath the computer desk and gives an expansive yawn. Then Sam toes his boots off, leaves them at the base of the narrow stairs, and climbs to his bedroom above. 

The bathroom is up here too, as is the shower Sam is too tired to even think about using. He barely has enough energy to brush his teeth, though he forces himself to make at least a showing of his normal bedtime routine. His eyes are barely open as he emerges back into his bedroom, dressed in his softest t-shirt and boxers. He kills the light, leaving only the illumination from a tall bank of computer equipment in one corner, and the moon through the skylight above. 

He doesn't notice a flicker of shadows in the far corner as he drops exhaustedly into bed, not even bothering to worm his way beneath the covers despite the coolness of the night. He's in his own bed again, barely conscious as he shifts and settles—

A sudden dip of weight at the edge of the bed startles him to full wakefulness, but his reaction isn't quick enough. By the time he tries to roll the other direction, off the bed, it's too late. There's heavy weight across his chest, stifling his breath. Strong hands close tight around his throat and choke off what little air he has.

He flails. Struggles. Knocks an elbow against the bedside lamp—it turns on as it falls and casts light on Sam's assailant. 

Unfamiliar eyes stare down at him from a masked face, emotionless and calm. Sam's lungs begin to burn. He can't dislodge the man's weight straddling his chest, and his last conscious thought is the surreal protest that this can't actually be happening.


	7. Reaction Force

Tron has no trouble finding the boxed form of Sam's apartment, following the address he found on Alan-One's computer. Though the trip takes him a long time on foot, Tron never second guesses his course. This new world may be incomprehensibly strange, but he was programmed with an almost infallible sense of direction. 

There are three ways in to the strange structure, he discovers on arriving to a darkened domicile. The noisy-looking garage doors at either side seem a poor choice at this hour; the smaller door at one end is more promising. Tron expects he will have to choose between waking Sam or forcing the door open by raw strength, but the door to simply gives way beneath his touch. Closer inspection lodges worry tightly in his chest. The door is not simply unlocked; it's been damaged somehow. Tron is not the first to enter this way tonight.

The knowledge spurs him forward, and he moves now with calculated speed. He navigates the darkened first floor easily, avoiding the couch at the center of the room, finding the stairs in the gloom. There's dim light from above as he climbs, and the sounds of a scuffle reach his ears. 

He moves faster.

When he crests the stairs, he requires only an instant to take in the scene. A dark figure kneels on Sam's bed, gloved hands wrapped around his throat. Sam's eyes are closed. A lamp lies on its side near the bed, casting reluctant light across the room.

Cold rage sluices through Tron, coating his insides with violent instinct. He reacts without thought, crossing the room silently, placing himself behind the intruder before his presence has even been noticed.

His fingers itch for his discs, but those weapons—those extensions of self—don't exist outside the Grid. One more strangeness he does not like about this world. But there are other ways to cause damage. Tron has been a fighter all his life. He's had three days in this world, to observe and to learn. He reaches forward with both hands and grasps the intruder by the chin and forehead. The man's neck breaks with a wrenching twist, and Tron shoves the dead form carelessly off the bed.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Sam comes awake coughing.

His chest and throat hurt, and it takes him a moment to remember his final conscious moments. Marvin's high barking batters at his ears, and Sam struggles to control his breathing. He wills the ringing in his head to stop. Neither effort accomplishes anything. 

"Here," says a familiar voice, low and reassuring. A cautious hand helps Sam sit up, and then there's cool glass being pressed into his hand, cold water. He finally opens his eyes to find Tron kneeling on the bed beside him. A rigid expression darkens Tron's face, and his entire body is a taut line of readiness, as though still bracing for some threat, and Tron's eyes—

Tron's eyes are dark with searing intensity, and staring right at Sam. 

Sam's breath catches in his abused throat, and the glass of water pauses halfway to his mouth. He stares back at Tron, startled and lost for words. No one has ever looked at him like that before. Then again, no one's ever saved him from strangulation either. Impossible as all this seems, Sam can't ignore the rasping soreness of his throat or the throbbing at his temples. He's lucky to be alive.

The raw intensity in Tron's eyes banks, and once it's gone Sam half wonders if he imagined it. There's only measured calm in Tron's face now, as he watches Sam drink. When the glass is empty, Sam sets it on the bedside table where the lamp should be. 

"Thanks." Sam's voice feels like sandpaper and doesn't sound much better. Christ, what he'd give for an aspirin right now.

Marvin is still barking from the floor, scared and impatient, but Sam barely has the energy to keep sitting upright let alone lean over to retrieve him.

"Hey." Sam meets Tron's eyes and nods towards Marvin. "Could you maybe...?" Even with only part of a question to decipher, Tron complies. He leans down and scoops Marvin up, setting him on the bedspread beside Sam. Marvin hurries forward, suddenly quiet, sniffing Sam all over and climbing into his lap. Sam settles stiffly back against the headboard, absently stroking Marvin's fur.

"What are you doing here?" he asks Tron, voice soft to keep from irritating his throat. 

Tron doesn't answer. Sam lets his gaze drift away as his brain belatedly wakes. Questions without answers buzz in and out of his aching head, and he takes in the sight of his room, lit unevenly by the upended lamp. 

His gaze stops—so does his heart for a moment—at the sight of the slumped figure on the floor. Dressed all in black, face obscured by the the ski mask from Sam's memory, body crumpled like debris. There's no rise and fall of breath in the man's chest. There's no movement whatsoever.

"Is he dead?" Sam asks in a flat-footed whisper.

"Yes," Tron says simply. 

"Fuck," Sam breathes.

He calls Alan first, police second. So much for a night's normal sleep in his own bed. The EMT's want to cart him off to the nearest urgent care center, but Sam refuses point blank. After all the questions and noise of the crime scene, Sam has no intention of sleeping in some drafty hospital bed for what's left of his night. Or morning. Or whatever the fuck this is.

A quick glance confirms that the sky is graying to the east. Sunrise will start casting the horizon a sullen purpling soon. Sam shifts his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, rolls his shoulders and tucks Marvin more securely into the crook of his arm. 

"I don't believe this," he mutters, more to Alan than to Tron, though Tron still hovers protectively nearby.

"Believe it," Alan retorts darkly. His voice is tinged as much with anger as fear, but none of it is aimed directly at Sam. "You're damn lucky to still be breathing. I don't know what I'd have done if—" He stops sharply, like he can't even stand to say the words aloud. His eyes cut away just as quickly, and for a long moment he seems to be ignoring Sam in favor of watching the EMT's load the would-be assassin's lifeless body into an ambulance. 

"Alan," Sam says softly, quietly enough that it's just between them (them and maybe Tron, still standing too close).

"We may need to contact an attorney," Alan says instead of letting Sam speak. "For Tron. I doubt the police will try to bring him in, considering the circumstances. But better to be prepared." 

" _Alan_ ," Sam repeats. He's always been able to out-stubborn Alan, and they both know it. He waits until Alan is finally looking at him, eyes too bright and expression guarded, and then Sam says, "I'm all right. I'm still here. Stop freaking out, okay?"

"I'll freak out if I damn well want to," Alan retorts. The bare hint of levity in his voice is forced, but he's trying. 

Sam offers a smile, probably weak, and squeezes Alan's shoulder. He doesn't let go right away. 

"Are you all right, Sam?" Alan presses. "Really?"

"Yes. Really. You can stop asking." Sam's even reasonably sure he's not lying to Alan's face right now. He's still dubious about what just happened, shocked and sore and completely turned-around. But already the physical hurts are fading beneath the painkillers the EMT's pressed on him. It's impossible to feel unsafe with Tron lingering close and Alan at his side and Quorra not far off. Marvin gives a sharp yip in Sam's arms, and Sam sighs.

"Guess I'm crashing at your place again. Sorry." Except he's not really. Alan offers Sam a fraction of a smile and nods, and Sam adds, "I hope it's all right if I bring Marvin."

"Of course," Alan says. "Come on, let's get out of here." He sets a hand on Sam's shoulder and urges him away from the flashing lights, and Sam lets himself be diverted without protest.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Sam sleeps most of that day in the guest bed that may as well be his. Apparently surviving attempted murder can leave a guy exhausted. When finally he wakes, restless and thirsty, he enters the kitchen to an ambush; Alan is waiting for him with a freshly brewed a pot of coffee.

Alan stands alone by the window, and the look on his face says they're about to have a conversation Sam won't like. Sam approaches cautiously, all to wary of the guarded worry in Alan's eyes. He pauses by the coffeemaker, rummaging in the cupboard and then pouring himself a generous mug. He considers sugar, decides against, and blows on the steaming surface before taking a sip. 

Eventually, out of stalling tactics, he crosses what's left of the kitchen to stand beside Alan at the window.

"Good morning," Sam says blandly, taking another sip of coffee.

"Good enough," Alan agrees. 

The silence that settles between them is the stubborn, serious kind. For several expectant moments neither of them speaks. Sunset is distorting the sky with an array of pinks and purples, and Sam has to keep reminding himself this isn't morning, much as the foggy sleep in his brain and limbs suggests otherwise. Eventually, Sam tires of waiting. 

"God, Alan, _what_?" he demands, a little too sharply. 

Alan doesn't look offended. He just takes another slow sip of coffee, then turns his eyes from the purpling horizon and locks them on Sam.

"I think you should move in with me for a while," Alan says. "Not just stay for a couple of days, but actually stick around. At least until the police have completed their investigation."

" _What_ investigation?" Sam counters. He's trying for a dry tone, but the words come out gritty with irritation. "The guy's _dead_ , Alan. He's not going to break into my apartment again." 

"And if he wasn't working alone?"

"Are you listening to the words coming out of your mouth?" Sam retorts. "Why are you trying to make this into some kind of conspiracy?"

"Maybe it's not." Alan's eyes have narrowed, demonstrating how plausible he finds _that_ possibility, but he shrugs tiredly. "But maybe it is. I'd just as soon err on the side of caution."

"Alan, come on—"

"Consider the timing, Sam. In all the years you've lived there, you've never once had a burglary. Suddenly, three days after you make your move at Encom, someone's breaking in and trying to kill you in your sleep?"

"Do you realize how nuts this sounds?" Sam closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Do _you_ realize how nuts it is that someone tried to kill you last night?" Alan retorts darkly, and something in his tone draws Sam's attention like a punch. He stares at the unmistakable shadow of violence in Alan's eyes. It's a look Sam's never seen him wear before. 

"Alan..." Sam hesitates, suddenly at a loss.

"I don't care how any of this sounds. It's too implausible to be a coincidence. There are plenty of people unhappy that you're making a play for Encom. _Powerful_ people. I can't imagine any of them putting a price on your head, but that doesn't mean it hasn't happened."

Alan has a point. But much as Sam would bend over backwards to calm that look off Alan's face—to prevent him from ever worrying this way again—he can't bring himself to back down. It's more a matter of principle than of reason, but Sam knows he can't compromise.

"No," he says simply. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm not going to let some dead dude upend my entire life."

Alan doesn't respond immediately this time. He lapses instead into a new silence, heavy and considering. He sips slowly at his coffee and stares out the window. 

Sam waits. His gut says Alan won't push him too far on this, but that doesn't mean the discussion is closed. Something in Alan's profile tells Sam he's not off the hook yet.

Without taking his eyes off the darkening tree line outside, Alan finally speaks. "A bodyguard, then."

"You're joking."

Alan locks him in a serious stare that tells Sam this is no joke. Alan is as deadly serious as he's ever been in his life, and Sam can only gape in disbelief. 

"Alan, this is ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous is that you're still arguing with me."

"Seriously," Sam insists. " _No_ , okay? I can take care of myself. I don't need some knuckle-headed heavy following me around, trying to intimidate anyone who so much as breathes on me." 

Alan is clearly not backing down. Instead of trying to take on Sam's argument, he simply says, "You need protecting."

Sam has every intention of protesting until he wins this conversation. It's _his_ life, and okay, maybe he's not as good at taking care of himself as he'd like people to think, but that's still his call to make. What the fuck is he supposed to do with some stranger tailing him at all hours, armed to the teeth and scowling at anyone who gets too close? Sam's a loner. He has enough trouble letting people he _likes_ share his proximity for any length of time, how is he supposed to cope with what Alan is suggesting? 

But before Sam can make any of these points, a voice interrupts from the shadows of the hall.

"Alan-One is right." 

Tron. Figures. Sam sighs, closes his eyes for a moment, then turns his attention on Tron.

"No fair ganging up on me."

But as Tron steps out of the shadows, there's a familiar fierceness in his eyes. His expression is more than enough to quell Sam's unvoiced arguments. Sam rankles a little at finding himself so easily cowed, but there's no debating the ferocious certainty in Tron's eyes.

Another lingering moment stretches between them, and then Tron turns to meet Alan's eyes.

"I will protect him," Tron says.

Sam gapes, but somehow still can't find his voice. He waits for Alan to reject Tron's suggestion as ridiculous. Instead Alan looks like he's actually considering it, and Sam's expression widens into genuine disbelief.

"We'll need to get you a permit to conceal and carry," Alan says, regarding Tron somberly. "Do you have any experience with firearms?" 

Sam, knowing when he's beat, turns from the window and drains his mug as quickly as he can. As he leaves the kitchen, Alan is already planning logistics. Sam shakes his head and wonders if he should go back to bed. 

Maybe the world will make more sense tomorrow.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Tron is pleased (and relieved) that Alan-One so readily agrees to his proposal. There's something fiercely protective in the way Alan-One cares for Sam, and Tron is grateful he's not the only one whose first priority seems to be protecting Sam Flynn.

There had been questions from a veritable army of police. Tron had never interacted with police before last night, though he commanded such a force himself on the Grid. There will always be need for law keepers, whatever the world. But the questions they asked him were troubling. Questions about the dead man in the corner of Sam's room. Questions that have left Tron wondering now, in the settling quiet of Alan-One's kitchen, if he went too far. 

He feels no remorse for what he did. Yet as he considers his own actions—as he remembers sharp-edged instinct driving him forward—something dark and violent twists beneath his skin. He does not regret his actions, but he is terrified of the shadowed rage he feels at the thought of anyone doing harm to Sam Flynn.

Tron moves with accustomed silence when he navigates Alan-One's expansive house towards his own bedroom. He passes the open door to the den near the stairs, witnesses Sam and Quorra exchanging quiet words. He hears little more than a sheepish, strangely confessional, "I'm glad you're all right." He sees Quorra step in and hug Sam tightly, and Sam respond easily in kind. 

There is no danger here. Quorra can be trusted—above anyone, perhaps, besides Alan-One—yet something possessive twines along Tron's spine. He hurries his steps, still not making a sound as he puts the open doorframe behind him and climbs the narrow stairs. 

Tron has discovered that, while he needs rest in this world, he is reluctant to resign himself to sleep. Dreams are a new and unpleasant experience. For this reason, he's still awake to hear the light tap at his door. He is unsurprised to find Sam standing in the hall. 

"Hey." Sam's hands are stuffed in his pockets, his posture ill at ease. "Can I come in?"

Tron steps aside and gestures Sam through with only a partial tilt of his head. Sam steps past him and waits for Tron to close the door, then sits on the edge of the bed. Tron asks no questions. He has a clear enough idea of why Sam is here. 

"So I guess you're serious about this bodyguard thing," Sam finally says, exasperation warring with fatigue in his voice. Despite almost a full day of sleep, he's still looks tired. Tron can read the signs all over him, in his slouching posture, the thin line of his mouth, the shadows beneath his eyes. 

Tron's silence must be confirmation enough, because Sam just heaves a put-upon sigh and lets his head drop forward. 

"I tried to get Quorra to intervene on my behalf," Sam mutters. "But she seems to think you two are being completely reasonable." 

Tron is standing at stiff attention, hands clasped behind his back. He's uncomfortable with Sam's evident displeasure, but he is also unwilling to retreat. User or not, Tron has no intention of caving to Sam's wishes when those wishes are clearly foolish. Sam may dismiss his concerns, but Tron trusts his own instincts. When Kevin Flynn insisted everything was under control, Tron pushed back only so hard before yielding to the User's judgment. He won't make the same mistake again.

"I will not let harm come to you, Sam Flynn."

Another long, slow exhale, but a lighter tone when Sam says, "You know you can just call me _Sam_ , right?" He raises his eyes to look at Tron, and Tron inclines his head, filing the permission away. It's strange to think that the exhausted man sitting before him is one and the same with the small child Tron knew, so many cycles ago on the Grid. It doesn't seem possible, but Tron is too practical to deny reality. He himself should not exist outside the Grid, yet here he is; he can accept the precept that children grow up. 

"Why are you so determined, anyway?" Sam asks softly. "I mean, I appreciate you saving my life repeatedly, don't get me wrong. But what is it with you and the knight-in-shining-armor routine?" 

Tron ignores the reference he doesn't understand, accustomed as he is to Kevin Flynn's strange manner of speech. He's well practiced at deciphering and responding to the portions of a statement that make sense, and he considers his answer carefully. He must be cautious; instinct tells him he can't explain to Sam all the ways in which he belongs to Tron. Sam is a User, and Tron has no claim on him beyond the inexplicable certainty twining through his code.

Tron moves at last, quickly crossing the room to kneel at Sam's feet. He doesn't touch, but he meets Sam's startled eyes without guile. 

"You are the son of Flynn," Tron says. "And you have always been mine to protect." 

He sees the way his admission hits Sam, the minute widening of eyes, the nearly imperceptible intake of breath. He wonders if he's shown too much.

"Come on, man." Sam's voice has gone quiet with uncertainty, but there's no true skepticism in the words. Despite his protest, he must know Tron isn't joking. He must realize how very serious Tron is about keeping Sam safe.

"You saw what I did to the man who attacked you." Tron lets shadows and anger darken his tone. He needs to be sure Sam _understands_ ; even more, he needs to be sure Sam will let him do what he has to.

"You were caught off guard, same as me," Sam protests weakly. "You didn't mean to kill him."

"I would do it again in an instant."

Sam's face hardens with a stubborn look, and he shakes his head. "I don't think you would." 

"He was a User," Tron says. "I should regret my actions and repent of my blasphemy. But I _would_ do it again." 

There are further protests in Sam's eyes, but he speaks none of them. He must see the truth of Tron's words. He doesn't flinch, though. He doesn't recoil from Tron now that he understands. 

Tron squares his shoulders, leans closer, lets his voice rumble with the weight of confession. "I would do far worse to protect you, Sam Flynn." 

Then, because his point is made—or perhaps because if he stays he will inevitably _touch_ —Tron stands and retreats. Sam's eyes follow him, curious and gauging, but not afraid.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Sam wants to be furious when Alan won't let him go to Encom the next morning.

"Someone leaked word about the attempt on your life," Alan announces over his morning coffee (Sam's been up since four and has already finished three mugs). He's leaning one hip against the kitchen counter, and everything about his body language is unyielding. "The news outlets are having a field day speculating on what happened. The last thing you need is to come in to work too soon and have them question your fitness for the job." 

"When can I come back, then?" Sam asks bleakly. "And how come you suddenly get to boss me around?"

"We'll give it a few days. You can lie low and rest up." A pause, a lighter look accompanied by a quirk at one corner of Alan's mouth. "And I've always bossed you around. This is just the first time you've ever _listened_." 

"So you're going back into the lions' den without me," Sam protests, trying not to sound petulant. "And I get to hide out here and do... What the fuck am I supposed to _do_? I don't know the first thing about lying low." 

"Make Tron an appointment at a firing range," Alan says without a trace of sarcasm.

"I don't know the first thing about guns, either." For all that his life has been full of adrenaline-chasing bad ideas, Sam has always kept his distance from actual weapons. He's always harbored too much anger to be comfortable with a gun in his hand. 

"Then find someone who does," Alan shoots back calmly, setting his empty mug down on the counter. "I put some phone numbers on the fridge, and I'm sure you're more than capable of finding whatever else you need." 

"Fine," Sam mutters, all too aware that Alan is being reasonable. "But I'm sleeping at my own place tonight." 

"Fine," Alan agrees. "As long as you take Tron with you."

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

That night, as promised, Sam insists on returning to his apartment. It's mostly just stubbornness at this point. He can't convince anyone that he doesn't need protecting, he can't make Alan take him back to Encom, but he _can_ sleep in his own damn bed. No one can stop him doing that, though even here he has to compromise; Tron accompanies him, as per Alan's insistence.

Sam won't admit aloud just how reassured he is to have Tron with him, but he probably doesn't have to. Tron has already proven startlingly adept at reading Sam's moods.

Sam has little to pack before returning home, for the second time in less than a week. Mostly there's just Marvin, and the necessary supplies that come with hauling your pet across town for an overnight stay. Tron, Sam is shocked to learn, actually has a duffle bag packed when the time comes to leave: actual clothing, toiletries, things that make absolute sense but still throw Sam off his stride. He's so used to thinking of Tron as different—damn near immortal, above the mundane necessities of life outside the Grid.

But life outside the Grid has its own rules, and even Tron has to live by them now. Of course he adapted while Sam wasn't looking.

With Alan still at Encom, Sam finds himself faced with an unexpected quandary. Between Marvin and Tron, his bike is just not feasible. There's a second car in the garage, its key hanging beside the hall door; Alan wouldn't begrudge Sam borrowing the vehicle, even without asking permission. But Sam hates the thought of ditching his bike in Alan's driveway. It's a conundrum.

It's a conundrum solved when Quorra strides forward with the keys and says, "We'll meet you there," tossing a quick glance at Tron and then down Marvin. 

"You can drive?" Sam gapes.

She gives him a mildly offended look and arches one eyebrow. 

"I didn't mean it like that," Sam hedges, realizing he's put his foot _right_ in it. Of course she can drive. After more than a thousand cycles in Kevin Flynn's company, she's probably the master of every vehicle on the Grid. How hard can a car be for a quick study like Quorra? Or Tron, for that matter. Sam suddenly wonders if Tron's been sneaking time behind the wheel, too. "I just meant, you can't possibly have a license yet."

Quorra grins and says, " _That_ only matters if I get pulled over." 

Sam should probably protest here, at least nominally. He doesn't bother.

"Right. I guess I'll see you on the other side, then." He hands her the bag that he's crammed full of Marvin's food and water dishes. Marvin's leash is already attached to his collar, trailing the floor behind him. Quorra accepts the bag, slipping the strap over her shoulder. Sam bends to scoop Marvin up, but he's thwarted when the small dog gives a yip and darts away—

Straight to Tron, who crouches with out-held hands, and stands now with Marvin in his arms. Marvin yips happily, licking Tron's hand as he's settled securely in the crook of Tron's elbow. Tron scratches Marvin carelessly behind the ears with his free hand. His face is comically sober as he nods at Sam. There's disapproval in his eyes, but he doesn't try to argue Sam out of riding home alone. 

"Be careful," Tron admonishes. It's not just an order to drive safe. It's a caution towards extra vigilance. If someone out there _is_ gunning for Sam, who's to say they won't try their luck on the street?

"I will," Sam promises, zipping up his jacket and putting on his helmet.

He doesn't actively _try_ to lose Tron and Quorra en route, but he's still surprised they manage to stay with him the entire way to the apartment. It's just after sunset, and traffic is congested on the major thoroughfares. Yet somehow, every time he glances in his mirror Quorra is right there on his tail. 

She stays for dinner. Sam doesn't have to insist very hard, especially once she smells the pizza he orders in. By the time she leaves, almost three hours later, Sam's in a better mood; Quorra's company makes it difficult to stay cranky. Once her taillights disappear and Sam has lowered both the front and back garage doors, it occurs to him he should have given a little more thought to this semi-permanent houseguest situation.

He puts the last of the pizza in the fridge and turns to find Tron watching him, still sitting on the couch with eerily perfect posture. 

"So." Sam closes the fridge and leans against the counter beside it. "Sorry about this. My place is kind of crap for company. You can take the bed, I'll sleep on the couch."

"No, Sam," Tron says. And Sam can't be reading it right, but he could almost swear he sees a tiny glint of amusement in Tron's eyes, despite the somber line of his mouth. "You sleep in your own bed." 

Sam would look like a better host if he argued a little. Hell, he feels like an asshole not putting up more of a fight. But then, he figures, the whole point of coming here tonight is that he wants to sleep in his own damn bed. Tron knows this. There's no way he'll let Sam talk him into taking the bed, even if Sam were enough of a gentleman to insist. 

So when Sam crawls beneath the covers and turns off the light, it's with only the barest hint of guilt itching beneath his skin. 

He's not sure what wakes him. A quick blink at the clock beside his bed tells him it's 2:30 a.m. He's normally a sound sleeper, not one to wake during the night. Suddenly he's not just awake, but _wide_ awake, and the transition is jarring. There's an unfamiliar edge to his pulse, an unpleasant hum beneath his skin. But then, maybe it makes sense. Last time he slept in this bed, he woke to a stranger in his home trying to choke the life out of him. He's probably doomed to sleeping lightly for the foreseeable future. 

Resigned, but also determined to go back to sleep, Sam heaves a sigh and shifts onto his other side. He blinks, shakes his head as though to clear it, and stares when the unexpected vision remains before him.

Tron is asleep is in his bed.

That's... weird. But suddenly Sam's pulse isn't quite so fucked up. Suddenly he doesn't feel half so on-edge. With Tron this close, how could anything bad possibly happen?

In retrospect, Sam should've suggested this solution from the start. The couch downstairs is hell to sleep on, and there's no reason two can't share Sam's bed. It's a king-sized mattress that takes up most of the narrow bedroom, plenty big enough for two to sleep on their own respective sides and not interfere with each other. 

Somehow, where it should feel strange, it makes perfect sense that Tron is asleep on the other side of Sam's bed. 

He wonders what Tron dreams about. He wonders if Tron dreams at all. Tron has curled onto his side in sleep, facing the center of the bed. The lines of his body are loose and relaxed, startling contrast to the rigid readiness of his waking posture. Even in repose Tron tends to hover on the very edge of action, his cryptic eyes always watchful, taking in everyone and everything. Cataloguing data, Sam thinks, the way his warrior's programming perceives the world even though he's no longer on the Grid. It must be exhausting. 

Sam doesn't think Tron was always like that. He remembers strength and surety, in those moments when he actually thinks about the Grid of his childhood; not the perpetual tension that sits in Tron's shoulders now. The constant readiness was there, but it was tempered with the natural ease of a man comfortable in his own skin. 

Tron looks younger in sleep, with one arm tucked beneath the pillow and his lips barely parted. The sheet and blanket have slipped low across his stomach, and the gray t-shirt Tron is wearing looks black in the scant moonlight.

At first Sam thinks it's a trick of the moonlight, but the closer he stares the more sure he becomes of what he's seeing: Tron's bare arms are lined with intricate patterns of circuitry, glowing and pulsing pale in the darkness. The light isn't pronounced enough to cast a glow around him, or to glimmer through the dark fabric of the t-shirt, but the patterns are unmistakable. Similar lines circle Tron's throat, even more intricate than those along his arms, and Sam wonders where else that circuitry runs.

His face heats a little at the thought. He's never seen Tron naked. Even when he scrounged up his dad's old clothes at the arcade, he turned his back to give Tron privacy. It never occurred to him to sneak a peak. He can't help feeling curious as hell now, though, wondering what equipment Tron is sporting beneath his clothes. 

Human as Tron looks, the faintly glowing circuitry proves he's also something more. The barely visible patterns are hypnotic and distracting, and Sam watches them for a long time without returning to asleep. 

Eventually, though the night is still late, Tron opens his eyes. He does it with an instant alertness, no groggy sheen of waking in his gaze as he catches Sam staring. Tron's brow creases faintly, and his voice is a quiet rumble when he speaks.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sam says quickly, though he doesn't take his eyes off Tron. "Just thinking." 

As usual, Tron doesn't respond to that. His patient silence is eloquent enough. There's expectation in the way he watches Sam, and in the weight of his focus through the midnight dark. Sam doesn't plan on admitting to Tron that he just spent some twenty minutes watching him sleep. He holds his peace for several seconds, until a different thought compels him to speak.

"You're so much quieter than I remember." Sam searches Tron's face, but there's no change in the calm focus of that expression. Sleepy as he was that first night off the Grid, Sam remembers the split second of alarm on Tron's face when Sam asked if he was all right. "When I was a kid... You were always explaining things or telling me stories. You always had something to say." 

Tron doesn't answer, and Sam purses his lips, swallows thickly. He wants to help. But this isn't the Grid. He can't just pull up a string of code and fix the damaged pieces. Even if he could, would that be fair? Tron's not just a program. He's a _person_. He's a hero. If he doesn't want to let Sam in, that's his call to make.

"I wish you'd let me help," Sam says softly. 

"There is nothing to help." Stubbornness echoes in Tron's words, alongside grim certainty. Sam's heart clutches unhappily at the unyielding steel in Tron's voice. 

When Sam closes his eyes, he can still feel Tron watching him. He feigns sleep for a long time before finally drifting down into dreams.


	8. Lines of Defense

The day Alan finally lets Sam back aboard the Encom train, is the day of the big press conference Sam's been anticipating since Alan first laid out their strategy. Sam has a combative history with the press (he spent a little too much time landing himself in the public eye growing up), and he's more nervous than he'll ever admit as he prepares to do battle.

He actually wears a suit. It's charcoal gray and perfectly fitted, yet easily the least comfortable outfit Sam has ever worn. Alan offers to help him with the tie, but Sam doesn't think he can stand to wear a tie in front of all those cameras. The suit is bad enough. It makes him feel like a fraud, pretending to be a proper businessman. A tie feels like that final step over the line into unforgivable hypocrisy. 

A tiny voice of doubt in the back of Sam's head nags at him, suggests that maybe he's not cut out for this after all. Maybe it will take more than stubbornness and a hereditary genius for computers to turn Encom around.

Then he glances back over his shoulder—past Tron who is, as always, just a step behind him—and catches sight of Alan. As easily as that, the nagging voice disappears. As long as Alan's got his back, Sam has nothing to worry about. The confident smile on Alan's face gives Sam all the reassurance he needs.

Tron hovers at the edge of the platform as Sam takes his place. The lights glaring down make Sam feel completely exposed, and he stares out at an army of reporters and cameras. The entire room stares back at him. Sam blinks, and realizes he feels no hint of the terror he's been anticipating. There's only a wash of certainty shoring him up from the inside, born of knowing Alan is on his side and Kevin Flynn's digital frontier was true all along. Sam can do this. Encom is rightfully his, and the one thing Sam knows for sure is that he's the only one who can put it back on track. 

There are notecards waiting on the podium before him, a short speech that Alan helped him prepared. A measured statement about the future of Encom, about Kevin Flynn's vision, about a company that was always meant to accomplish something _more_. Sam considers the speech, his eyes tracing the opening lines. It's all the right things to say. It's careful and meticulous.

Instead of reading it, Sam raises his eyes, grins at the nearest camera and says, "So. Who has questions?"

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Hours after the press conference—after a celebratory dinner and an expensive bottle of wine—Alan is surprised by a phone call he should've known was coming.

"Hello, Alan," says a soft, familiar voice he hasn't heard in over a year. 

"Lora." Alan smiles despite his surprise. "You must have seen the news." 

"Oh, I've been following Encom avidly these past couple weeks." Amusement sparkles warmly in her voice, making Alan nostalgic. Even after things ended between them, for a long time they were still close. Long distance didn't work out for them, but they stayed in touch for a while. It's amazing how even the best of friends can drift apart with time. 

"I thought Sam did very well," Alan says, slouching back in his chair. He settles the phone more comfortable against his ear and adds, "Considering how much time he's spent getting himself into conspicuous trouble in front of the media, I suppose it's good he has a natural instinct for handling." 

"Yes," she says. Then falls silent in a way that seems strangely expectation. 

"What is it?" Alan asks, brow crinkling in mild trepidation.

"Alan, I didn't call to talk about Sam." 

"You didn't?" The furrow in his brow deepens, and he's sure his confusion carries through the phone. He suddenly has no idea where this conversation is going. 

"Alan." She sounds more serious now. "Darling. Please. Were you worried I'd be angry?"

"Angry about what?" 

A pause stretches across the line, long and silent, and when Lora speaks again its with a forced sort of lightness. "Tell me about Sam's new bodyguard." 

Alan's brain stutters out, right on the edge of comprehension, catching up fast but not fast enough. This should have occurred to him. What is he even supposed to say to what he thinks she's implying?

"You never told me you had a son," Lora says at last, after Alan fails to respond for several long seconds. It still takes his brain a moment to match pace with what Lora is saying, and he scrambles for a response that won't sound ridiculous or blatantly untrue.

"Would you believe I didn't know myself until recently?"

A pause, but then a more genuine softness as Lora says, "Yes. I suppose I would believe that." 

He offers up little information, reluctant as he is to lie to her outright, but thankfully she doesn't press. Alan ends the call as quickly and politely as he can, then stares at his phone for several reeling minutes.

He's not entirely sure what compels him to tell Quorra about the phone call later that night. Maybe it's just timing, the fact that she finds him in the living room while he's still turning the conversation over and over in his head. Maybe it's the fact that she's borrowing his spare bathrobe and curls right up in the other corner of the couch, and she looks so much like she belongs there that when she asks what's wrong it doesn't occur to him to dissemble. 

She listens with an expression somewhere between amusement and concern, and Alan finds himself smiling ruefully at the way all this sounds. He can't quite believe how implausible his life has become, and in such a short time.

"Lora won't be the only one to jump to conclusions," Alan mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair with a tired sigh. "The resemblance _is_ uncanny. People will make the logical assumption." 

"Let them," Quorra says easily. "It's better than the alternative. Imagine if this world knew the truth. Imagine what would happen to Tron then." 

Alan sighs again, shakes his head, stares at his hands. Of course she's right.

An absurd thought hits him, abrupt and out of nowhere, and he breathes a startled bark of laughter. When he raises his eyes, Quorra is watching him with a curious expression, both eyebrows high and her head cocked to one side. Alan grins ruefully and shakes his head again.

"The press is going to get hold of his name eventually. Everyone is going to think I'm a complete freak, naming my son after a video game character." 

Quorra smiles fondly and says, "Just tell them you're eccentric. The crazier they think you are, the fewer questions they'll ask."

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Taking back Encom turns out to be a longer process than Sam imagined. It's more than a month before Alan has finally been installed as chairman of Encom's board of directors—a process not at all helped by a veritable army of existing board members throwing up every road block they can get their hands on—but Alan's been in the business long enough to jump those hoops with diplomacy and finesse.

As for Sam, he's been in the business long enough to know the smartest choice is to stand back and let Alan do his thing.

Sam's always paid more attention to the happenings at Encom than he'll ever admit, which means he knows enough to be grateful Alan's got his back. Sam knows the building, knows the business, knows the employees and the board. What he doesn't know is how to get shit done when from every direction he's surrounded by attempts to undermine his efforts. But Alan does. Alan's been the master of this arena since before Sam was born, and Sam's not too proud to admit he'd be getting nowhere without the man's help.

It still seems like an eternity before the company finally starts to come around. There are a lot of firings, a lot of reassignments, a restructuring like Encom hasn't seen since Kevin Flynn first took power. Sam feels like he spends days at a time in meetings with the HR department. He's not even CEO yet, but he's more exhausted than he's ever been in his life.

"It will get easier," Alan promises when he catches Sam napping in Alan's office, slumped over the desk on what should be his lunch hour. "Now that we've got HR on our side, you'll be able to make your own schedule, stick to more reasonable hours."

"What about you?" Sam slouches back in Alan's chair and looks up at him with a tired, quizzical expression. "How reasonable will your hours be?"

Alan gives him a wry smile. "I've never kept reasonable hours. I don't see why I should start now." 

"Alan—"

"This was your father's company, Sam," Alan says, quietly steamrolling whatever stilted apology Sam might've been about to make. "It's yours now. That means a damn to me. Trust me. I've got this." 

"Come on, Alan." Sam can't help the nudge of guilt, the sense that he's awfully close to taking Alan for granted lately—maybe has been his entire life—and in a soft, self-conscious voice he says, "You don't owe me anything."

"No," Alan agrees. "But I won't let that stop me." 

Sam must still look hesitant, because after a moment's pause Alan adds, "I'm good at this, Sam. It's what I do. Don't freak out about it, okay? Just let me do my job, and I'll put you in the right position to do yours." 

"And what's _my_ job?" Sam asks, half in jest, half deadly serious. As slow as his plans have been moving, Sam still hasn't quite figured out what he's _doing_ here beyond trying to get things back on a track his dad would approve of. 

Alan meets the serious edge of his question, falling somber as he says, "That's for you to decide."

Sam's got no good response to that, but Alan clearly isn't expecting one. A silence that's too tired to feel awkward is interrupted by the ring of Alan's phone on the corner of the desk. There are about half a million buttons on the damn thing, so even if Sam were inclined to answer other people's phones he wouldn't touch it. Alan presses a button towards the top, and the speaker activates, a soft click followed by the gruff voice of Alan's secretary. Sam's pretty sure the guy's name is Sid, but he wouldn't stake his life on it.

"Mr. Bradley, your delivery is here."

"Thanks, Brett, you can send it right in." 

Brett. Okay. Sam can remember that. He realizes Alan is looking at him inquiringly.

"What?"

"Lunch," Alan says, again looking far too amused at Sam's expense. "You eating? I ordered for three. Where's Tron?"

"God yes, I'm eating," Sam says, just as the knock sounds at the open doorframe. He lets Alan pay for the food and send the delivery girl away before also answering, "I think Tron's on the roof. He said something about familiarizing himself with the terrain. I promised I'd stay put until he gets back." 

Alan just shrugs and sets one of the sandwiches aside. He hands one to Sam, and Sam tears into it with abandon. Roast beef and pastrami with the barest hint of mayo. Exactly what he's been craving for the past two hours. He doesn't ask how Alan knew.

Alan is right about everything, of course. 

The days do plateau eventually, then shorten as business finally hits a routine. There are a handful of interviews before the press finally figures out that Encom's not going to crash and burn under Sam's new directives, at which point the major media outlets mostly lose interest. Some days Sam doesn't even go in to the office. He learns to predict when he'll be needed, when meetings will require his presence. He starts sitting in with other departments, learning the nuts and bolts of what goes on in a Fortune 500 company. In those meetings he mostly he keeps to himself. He gets drawn into more animated discussions when he talks to the programmers, the developers, the IT teams. He even finds some sparse common ground between himself and Ed Dillinger, and though they'll probably never be friends, at least they seem capable of working together.

Sam still steers clear of Dillinger's department when he can. He may not be as diplomatic as Alan, but he'd just as soon avoid stepping on toes unnecessarily. 

When Sam decides he's ready to have his own office instead of constantly camping out in Alan's space, HR puts him in the biggest suite on the top floor. They're still removing the letters that spell out 'Richard Mackey' when Sam moves in. 

He doesn't have much use for paperwork. His desk is more freestanding computer than it is a piece of furniture, and its processing speed blows even Sam's most ambitious modding jobs out of the water. It connects directly to Encom's mainframe, but there's also a direct partition to protect Sam's private work. 

Maybe it proves him paranoid, but Sam doesn't figure he'll be doing much private work on the Encom system, partition or no. He's heard his dad's story about taking over Encom plenty of times, and he's never particularly liked how the tale begins. 

Both at Encom and during Sam's off hours, Tron is a nearly constant presence. Even when they're alone Tron is quiet, and Sam thinks it should be easy to forget he's there in the business and bustle of life at Encom. But somehow, no matter how silently Tron stands, no matter how long he's out of Sam's line of sight, Sam never forgets. Maybe it's the tingle along the back of his neck, the knowing he's being constantly watched. Even though when he turns around Tron's eyes are almost never on him, Sam can't shake the feeling.

It surprises him, how easily he accepts so sudden and complete a shift in his life, from consummate loner to never having a moment's solitude, practically overnight. But Tron feels like such a natural addition to his life that Sam quickly settles in to his new reality. 

It helps that Marvin adores Tron—even over Sam, it seems some days. Sam doesn't think he could ever come to terms with a roommate who didn't get along with his dog.

Sometimes, when they're alone, he's able to draw Tron into conversation. Taciturn as Tron has become, he still possesses an obvious and undeniable curiosity. Tron wants to know everything about this strange world outside the Grid; the trick is getting him to ask the questions aloud. Even when Tron falls quiet, Sam appreciates the easy warmth of the program's presence. He's grown accustomed to having Tron in his apartment, constantly at the edge of his personal space. 

More than once Sam considers pointing out—to Alan, or to Tron, or maybe to both of them—that it's been nearly two months since his apartment was broken into. That maybe this ongoing bodyguard arrangement is ridiculous, and the last thing Sam needs is protecting when there hasn't been so much as a hiccup of suspicious activity in all that time.

But Tron makes so much sense just as he is—Sam's bodyguard and weirdly intense roommate—and somehow Sam never quite says the words. 

He grows accustomed to having Tron in his bed, too, though that's a little weirder to contemplate. 

Three months in to their strange arrangement, Sam wakes around three a.m. to discover that he's encroached on Tron's side of the bed. The alarm clock numbers glow red on the nightstand, clear despite the fact that almost the entire length of the mattress is in front of Sam instead of behind him. God only knows how he migrated this far in his sleep. And never mind the strangeness of realizing that Tron has a side of the bed; Sam still feels like an asshole for encroaching on it. 

Tron is surprisingly cool where he's pressed along Sam's back. His arm drapes thoughtlessly over Sam's hip, bracketing him close, and Sam mutters a curse under his breath. He shifts as cautiously as he can, because the last thing he wants to do is wake Tron up and turn this into a full-blown moment of awkward. 

But before he can maneuver free, Tron's arm tightens around him, catching him in a firmer grip. There's the shift and rustle of fabric as Tron presses closer, tucking Sam more securely against his chest. There's no change in the steady in-and-out of Tron's breathing, but Sam is trapped now. There's no getting out of Tron's hold without waking him. 

He's still considering his options when he drifts back to sleep.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

With a little ingenuity (and a lot of help from Quorra), Tron easily obtains a permit to conceal and carry, though he finds human firearms less accurate than the weapons he's accustomed to. Everything on the Grid is exact, digital precision. Everything in this startling world beyond is exactly the opposite.

He learns quickly, however. He compensates for the imperfection of this wider world and masters the skill, like a hundred others before. 

It's Alan who buys him a gun of his own, after all the formalities are complete. He gives the Glock to Tron during a lull of quiet: Alan summons him with a pointed look and a tilt of the head, and Tron follows to Alan's office. They leave the door open, but Alan's voice is still low as he hands over both weapon and shoulder holster.

"You'll have to start wearing a coat or jacket. Kind of the point of Conceal-and-Carry." A pause, a wry snort of laughter. "You might as well take a couple of mine, actually. They'll probably be a good fit."

Tron nods his thanks, and Alan watches him for a slow, strange moment. Alan's head is cocked to one side, his brow furrowed in concentration. The sky outside the office window is dark, and the glass reflects the room clearly back on itself.

"I know Sam thinks this is all pointless," Alan says at last, moving to draw down the blinds. "But you and I both understand the seriousness of the situation. I want you to know I appreciate what you're doing." 

"I won't let him down," Tron says. He's been fussing with the holster, adjusting the straps, slipping them over his arms and making sure everything fits without impeding his mobility. He slips the gun itself into the holster only at the last, after checking and finding it not yet loaded. He has no doubt Alan will also provide him with ammunition before Tron and Sam depart for the night. "Thank you for the weapon, Alan-One."

A more quizzical expression clouds Alan's face and creases his forehead. "Why do you call me that?"

A nearly identical crease settles between Tron's brows and he says, "Isn't it your name?"

"Not exactly." Alan's expression crinkles more deeply. "It's my Encom login. Has been for as long as I can remember, back before Kevin took over the company." 

Tron's own face smoothes with understanding, but he doesn't speak. It's another moment before comprehension brightens Alan's eyes.

"It was my username on the Encom mainframe, when I first programmed you," Alan says with an air of revelation. 

"If it bothers you—"

"No-no-no," Alan interrupts hurriedly. "I don't mind at all. Hell, you keep Sam safe and you can call me whatever you want."

Another pause falls between them. Alan seems to expect some response, but Tron holds his peace. He has nothing further to say. Eventually Alan shakes his head, a little sheepish, and says, "Come on, let's find you a suit coat. I'm sure my closet can spare a couple."

Alan leads the way, out of the office and down the hall, and Tron follows silently behind.


	9. It All Hits the Fan

When Sam is finally made CEO, Encom hosts a media circus of epic proportions. Part press conference, part networking event, part indescribably surreal award ceremony; Sam's never seen anything like it. He doesn't much like the tuxedo he's wearing for the event, and he feels like he's being paraded in front of every camera in the city as he plays nice for a hundred business executives whose names he struggles to remember.

The banquet hall is overflowing with expensively dressed attendees: Encom execs, media, corporate partners, even some of Encom's primary competitors. A stage runs the length of one wall, fancy and curtained. It's clearly a permanent fixture of the room; it looks far too sturdy to be something Encom constructed for the event. Sam's going to have to get up on that stage, and stand at that podium to give a rousing speech later tonight. Nothing new, really. Just a variant on what he's been saying in every press conference, every interview, every business discussion since he announced his intention to take back his dad's company. 

But somehow this is different. This is _real_ in a way that nothing up to tonight has seemed. He's not just calling his own shots now. When he gets up on that stage, Alan is going to introduce him as Sam Flynn, CEO. That's the moment Sam will have to prove he knows what he's talking about, to a crowd full of more people than he's ever seen in one place. 

A waiter maneuvers past him, and Sam wistfully eyes the tray of drinks. He hasn't had so much as a glass of beer tonight, but it'd be awfully nice to take the edge off.

Now that he doesn't have anyone's immediate attention, Sam retreats towards the wall. He finds a quiet corner and exhales relief at the fleeting sense of solitude, taking in the room from this more distant angle. It's hard to look at any one thing for more than a second. Too many people, too much movement, patterns of powerful men and women navigating and networking. It's more than Sam's brain can hang onto just now.

He doesn't startle at the cool hand that brushes the small of his back. Tron's been hovering just out of Sam's line of sight all evening so far, but that doesn't mean he hasn't been close. 

"Some fresh air, perhaps?" Tron murmurs now, voice pitched low. Sam glances at him, takes in the rigid line of Tron's posture, the hands clasped loosely behind his back, the way Tron's gaze moves constantly over the crowd, taking in everything at once. 

"Nah." Sam grins. "I'm good. Just nervous." 

Tron nods but doesn't take his eyes off the crowd. Sam watches him for a minute longer and reminds himself to breathe. 

When Alan finally summons him to the stage, Sam draws a steadying breath and takes the stairs carefully. The last thing he needs is to trip on his way to the microphone; fantastic impression _that_ would make. His pulse is a quick racket in his own ears, and he marvels that he can still be this nervous. It should be just like the press conferences, just like all the interviews that Sam has handled without anxiety. But it's not. It's different. There are too many eyes watching him now. There are potential investors in that audience, and business partners, and all the higher-ups of a company that belongs to _him_ , people whose respect Sam needs or he'll never accomplish a single damn thing.

The press is an easy monster to handle. Sam's been fucking with them his entire life. This audience is a different beast entirely.

"Thanks, Alan," Sam says, forcing himself to smile and _not_ startle at the way the microphone projects his voice into the expansive space of the banquet hall. Alan smiles back and retreats, down the stairs at the opposite side of the stage. The heavy spotlights above cast an almost blinding glow in Sam's eyes, and it actually helps that he can't clearly see the crowd in front of him. He sets his hands atop the podium, curls his fingers around the edges. No cue cards. He doesn't need them. He's rehearsed this speech a hundred times, and he's as ready as he'll ever be.

He opens his mouth, leaning towards the microphone— 

Before he can speak the first words, he hears a loud, ominous crack from somewhere above. Sam doesn't even have a chance to look up before he's being slammed to the side by a wall of solid muscle. There's the sharp rush of vertigo, then a jarring impact as he hits the stage, banging his elbow painfully on the wooden floorboards and gasping as the wind is knocked out of him. 

His vision is spotty—maybe for want of air as he struggles to catch his breath, maybe from the over-bright spotlights still marring his sight—but there's no mistaking the protective weight of Tron's body pinning him down. Sam blinks furiously, trying to clear his vision, trying to _see_ —

The shadows clear quickly as Sam draws a full breath at last, shaky not from fear but from raw surprise. There's a shattered mess of glass and metal on the stage, barely identifiable as one of the heavy spotlights from the workings above. Its pieces have scattered and spread with impact, but the bulk of the light lies crushed at the very center of the stage, just behind the podium.

Exactly where Sam was standing when it started coming down.

He shifts his attention, blinking up at Tron, wondering at the speed of the program's reaction. 

"Tron—" he starts, but the rest of the words catch and stop in his throat as Tron's sharp gaze hits him.

"Are you hurt?" Tron demands, fierce and low. Sam shakes his head, and Tron nods, grabs him by the arm and drags him upright. His eyes leave Sam's to exchange a look with someone—Sam's eyes follow and he catches Alan's nod from halfway across the room; then Tron is dragging him through the nearest door and down a hall clearly intended for employees rather than guests.

The room he finally shoves Sam into is empty and brightly lit. Some kind of break room, complete with shitty couch, outdated refrigerator, and a microwave on a counter next to an empty sink. Sam barely has time to take it in before Tron is shoving him against a bare patch of wall and surveying him with those startlingly intense eyes.

"Are you sure you're unhurt?" Tron demands, already patting Sam down to check for himself.

"Yeah," Sam protests, wondering if he should shake off Tron's efforts but a little too grateful for the contact. "I'm _fine_. What the hell happened in there?"

"I don't know," Tron admits, stilling only when he's reassured himself that he hasn't missed any injuries Sam might be trying to hide. "But Alan-One will find out." He doesn't back off now that he's done checking Sam. If anything, when he straightens he just looms closer. His hands are gentle enough on Sam's arms, but they pin him to the wall as surely as if Tron were trying to restrain him. 

"Are _you_ all right?" Sam demands.

"Yes," Tron says simply. Still not retreating. Still hovering close, like Sam's personal space is something he's entitled to. Sam has the bizarre urge to make a grab for Tron's suit jacket and tug him closer still. He's shaking from the adrenaline, from the close call, endorphins hitting him hard now that the immediate danger has passed. Christ, this is more intense than even his most reckless thrill seeking efforts. 

Sam isn't quite surprised to find himself grinning, but the expression clearly confuses Tron. 

"Why are you smiling?"

"No reason," Sam says, feeling sheepish but unable to wipe the expression off his face. "Well. No _good_ reason. Thanks for saving my ass back there." 

When Tron steps back, taking his hands off Sam, Sam's got the ridiculous urge to follow. Instead he keeps his back to the wall and tries not to feel bereft at the loss of contact.

"We should return to the banquet hall," Tron says in a matter-of-fact voice.

"Things have probably quieted down by now," Sam agrees, pushing off from the wall. His legs are only a little bit shaky beneath him. "And I'm sure Alan's worried." 

He lets Tron lead the way, little attention as Sam was paying to what direction they came from. He follows two steps behind, watching Tron's efficient stride and wondering what the hell he's gotten himself into.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

It's nearly two a.m. by the time Sam manages to escape all the questions and cops and EMTs; not to mention Alan's worried, hovering presence. He can tell Alan is reluctant to let him go at all—would just as soon Sam came home to stay with him, or better yet, agreed to be taken into protective custody—but Sam is one hundred percent over this bullshit. He wants to get home and get out of this tuxedo, wants to sleep in his own goddamn bed.

He can still hear Alan's voice in his head admonishing him to just _be careful_ , like he doesn't trust Sam to keep his head down.

He's probably right to worry. Sam's got a bad track record for keeping his head down. But he also has Tron now, and Sam can't bring himself to work up anything resembling fear when he has Tron at his back. 

He doesn't bother to hang his tux up after stripping out of it at home. He just tosses the whole getup—tux, tie, dress pants, cummerbund—in the corner and changes into a worn set of boxers and soft new t-shirt. Downstairs he can hear the quiet rattle and clatter of Tron filling Marvin's food dish, and he spares a brain cell or two to be glad he doesn't have to go back downstairs before crawling between the sheets on his own side of the bed, flopping back on the pillows with an exhausted thump. He barely remembers to turn off the bedside lamp and sink the bedroom into darkness, and his eyes drift heavily shut long before Tron comes to bed.

He opens his eyes to the same bleary darkness, though he senses it won't be long until sunup. He's unsurprised at the reassuring press of Tron all along his back, Tron's arm draped carelessly forward over Sam's stomach. More surprising is the fact that he and Tron seem to have gravitated together at the very center of the mattress tonight. This is no one-sided encroachment, Sam shifting obliviously towards Tron in his sleep. This is Tron meeting him halfway and curling protectively behind him.

For once Sam doesn't make even a token effort to move away. He's too comfortable right where he is. And anyway, for all that he's grown accustomed to waking with Tron in his space, this feels different somehow. Significant. Sam just wishes he could put his finger on _why_.

Tron is cool strength along Sam's spine, and though exhaustion still clings beneath his skin, Sam is wide awake now. A glance down and he can see the faintly glowing patterns of circuitry beneath Tron's skin, and he stares at them for several slow minutes.

"Tron," he whispers finally. "Are you awake?"

Tron doesn't speak, but he shifts against Sam in a way that can only be an affirmative. His arm tightens around Sam's stomach, and despite the cool temperature of Tron's body, Sam feels his own skin heat. He can't help it. Tron may not get how weirdly intimate their positions are, but Sam is all too aware. Just because he hasn't had anyone in his bed lately, doesn't mean he can pretend sharing his bed with Tron is perfectly normal.

He decides, mostly by force of will, not to think about that right now. 

"Thanks," Sam says, voice still low. "For last night." 

Again Tron doesn't respond, and though Sam isn't surprised, he's curious. And wide awake. For once he can't stop himself from asking, "Are _you_ okay?"

He half expects (fears) more silence, but after a cautious pause Tron simply says, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"It's not just that you're quieter than when I was a kid," Sam murmurs, wondering if Tron will pull away now, glad when he doesn't. "It's lots of stuff. You never smile. I remember you used to smile all the time." He remembers loving Tron's smile. He remembers the fondness in Tron's eyes cutting through the gray fog of Sam's own grief, his own loss so confusing to his four-year-old mind and heart. He remembers Tron taking those awful hurts and making them... not _okay_ , exactly, but tolerable. Like Sam could grieve without the world coming to an end.

He figures Tron's got more than enough call to wallow in his own grief right now. How could he not, after everything that happened on the Grid? But Sam can't shut down the desperate, futile sense that he should be able to help somehow. 

"You could tell me about it," Sam says. "Whatever's bothering you... I'd like to know. Maybe I can help. It doesn't seem fair, after you've done so much for _me_ —"

"It wasn't enough," Tron says softly, derailing Sam's insistence, making him blink in confusion at the empty darkness of his bedroom.

"What wasn't enough?" Sam asks cautiously, holding very still. 

"I couldn't stop Clu. I couldn't protect Kevin Flynn. I'm sorry, Sam."

"Hey, no. Fuck that." From total stillness Sam is suddenly in motion, twisting in Tron's arms, turning to face him even though Tron's stubborn grip keeps him close. Tron's eyes are intense, glinting in what little moonlight sneaks in from the skylight above, boring into him as Sam continues in a rough voice, "You got me off the Grid in one piece. You pulled off the impossible for me. You _couldn't_ have done more."

Tron doesn't look convinced exactly, but he doesn't protest either. There's no obvious rebellion in his eyes to indicate that he's rejecting Sam's point. Sam's unspent arguments die unspoken. Suddenly he's distractingly aware of their proximity, the way Tron is still holding him close and doesn't even seem to notice Sam's hands pressed to his chest. The fabric of Tron's t-shirt is soft beneath Sam's palms, and stretched thin enough for him to make out the soft lighted squares that form a 'T' at the base of Tron's throat. 

"Maybe I should..." Sam starts, meaning to pull away, put himself back where he belongs, on his own side of the bed. But instead of letting him finish, Tron tugs him closer, tucking Sam to his chest and settling more comfortably against the pillows. Sam knows he should try to twist free. He knows it's fucked up to enjoy Tron's hands on him this way when it doesn't mean what he wants it to, but he's too tired to care. He's too comfortable right where he is.

Five minutes later he's drifting again, sleep turning the issue moot as unsettled dreams drag Sam under.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Much as Sam would like to bury his head in the sand and not think about it, he can't pretend anymore that Alan's just being paranoid and overprotective. Once could be coincidence (they never did get to ask any questions of the corpse in Sam's apartment, never knew for sure _why_ he was there), but twice is something else. There's no way the debacle with the spotlight was an accident, no matter how badly Sam wishes it were just a question of faulty equipment.

The police report confirms: evidence of tampering. No fingerprints, no leads, no way to track down whoever was responsible. It seems somehow implausible that in a crowd that size no one saw anything, but the narrow framework of lights and ladders were too well hidden for casual observation. Or any observation, apparently. Sam's got no delusions that the detectives assigned to the case are going to find anything more. He resigns himself to keeping as low a profile as he can manage for a while, and tries not to resent the futility of the effort. What's the point in keeping his head down when whoever wants at him can just wait him out?

Sam doesn't say any of this aloud. It won't help. Alan is tightly wound enough already, and Tron's sticking even closer to his side than before. Only Quorra seems to have any sense of perspective, and she's clearly not inclined to talk sense into anyone else.

At least there's Encom. There's the work to distract Sam, the settling sense of routine, steady and reassuring but never so rigid as to make him feel trapped. Alan was right about this at least; Sam's setting his own hours now, crafting his own projects, calling his own shots and pulling more and more of Encom's best and brightest to work directly for him. There are some brilliant minds on his company's payroll. Going through a decade of reports and evaluations and red tape, Sam realizes just how thoroughly assholes like Richard Mackey have been squandering the company's strongest resources, turning Encom into a company that's more _safe_ than _innovative_. 

Fuck that. Sam's going to rekindle a spirit of creativity at this company if it kills him. And the closer he looks, the more employees he finds who just might help him make that happen.

He's not even _at_ Encom when a third attempt on his life takes him from ' _this-cannot-be-a-coincidence_ ' to ' _this-is-completely-fucked_.' He's out for dinner (first time in weeks he's gone out just for the hell of it), with Quorra and Tron. Somewhere fancy, somewhere stupidly expensive just for the sake of being stupidly expensive, somewhere with a tiny circle for a driveway and valet parking only. Alan hasn't come, despite being invited; Sam is starting to realize just how married to his work the man is. Getting him away from Encom tower on a weeknight is next to impossible.

Quorra orders for all of them. Sam has never really known what to do with himself at a restaurant this fancy, and he trusts to her judgment better than his own. They end up with steaks, perfectly cooked, and a bottle of Chianti that makes Sam's mouth water even though he's never been a big fan of red wine. 

Waiting out front for the valet to fetch the car (a rental for now, though Sam has finally started shopping around for his own—the bike just isn't practical when he's got a constant bodyguard to think of and more than just Alan in his life), Sam keeps his hands in his pockets against the damp chill of evening. There are dozens of people about, a busy street downtown at just after sunset. 

When the first gunshot shatters the quiet, a stone lion beside the restaurant's front door shatters to pieces. Sam doesn't even have time to react before Tron is snapping at him to get down, tackling him to the pavement as a second gunshot sounds. Quorra is already ducking low, scanning the scattering crowd with wide eyes. Tron is doing the same, even as he holds Sam pinned.

Sam doesn't realize he's clutching at Tron's shirt at first. When he glances down at his own hands he finds them covered in warm, red wetness. It can't be his own blood. He wasn't hit or he'd have felt it for sure. Tron, then. The fabric of Tron's sleeve is sodden, and panic twists in Sam's chest.

"Tron," he gasps. "Tron, you're hit, we have to—"

"It's fine," Tron says, holding him down harder and still searching the crowd with determined eyes. There's no concession of pain in his voice, just familiar steel. Sam swallows and does the most prudent thing he can think of. He keeps still.


	10. Undisputed Claim

When Sam tries to go back in his own head and piece events together, he'll come up with a big blurry mess sirens and shouting. A paramedic insists on taking a look at him, but aside from a bump on the head (Sam remembers hitting the pavement hard, he doesn't remember hitting his head), he's unhurt. They must ask about the blood on his hands and shirt, but some instinct stops Sam answering. He just stares dumbly at whoever asks him anything and hopes they attribute his silence to shock.

There are more questions, more sirens, but eventually Sam finds himself in the passenger seat of Alan's car. Alan is quiet at the wheel, his face grim with a look of fearful displeasure. Sam's only ever seen this look on Alan's face a couple times in his life, and he'd do anything to banish it now. 

"Tron?" Sam asks finally, as they pull away from the scene and drive.

"Quorra took him home." Alan's voice is tight. "To my place. I've got a friend coming out to check him over."

Sam hasn't been much use for rational thought since that first gunshot, but he catches up quickly now.

"We can't take Tron to the hospital," Sam says, half question, half warning. "He's not human. Who knows what the doctors would find." Sam thinks about the glow of circuitry beneath Tron's skin. He knows now that Tron bleeds red like anyone else, but beyond that— There are too many questions, and they can't risk it. 

"Sam," Alan says softly. "If the injury is serious..."

Sam slumps back in his seat and exhales a slow, tired breath. 

"I know," he says. "I just... Let's hope it doesn't come to that, okay?" 

Fortunately, Alan's doctor friend has better news. A clean shot through the shoulder. Tron will need rest, and probably some potent painkillers, but even without a hospital they can expect a full recovery. 

"Thank god," Sam breathes. When he offers to pay her for coming, she just laughs and waves him off. 

"I owe Alan a favor," she says simply. "Just keep an eye on the wound when you're changing the bandages. If it looks like it may be getting infected, call me sooner than later."

Quorra disappears briefly that same night, and when she returns it's with Marvin in tow. Marvin barely seems to notice the change of scenery, and why should he? Lately he's spending as much time at Alan's house as Sam himself. This probably looks and smells as much like home as Sam's apartment by now. Sam's sure as hell starting to feel that way.

He sleeps hard and dreamless that night, and in the morning he talks to Alan.

"I want you to stay with us, at least until Tron is back on his feet," Alan says, simple and grim over the ever-present mug of coffee.

"I figured you'd say that," Sam mutters. But he knows better than to protest. He even knows Alan is right. 

His own mug of coffee is too hot to drink yet, but he holds it in his hands and absorbs the warmth through his fingers. The hour is earlier than he wants to be conscious, by at least three hours, but he woke from unpleasant dreams well before sunup and had no urge to try for sleep again. It's no surprise Alan's already awake. Sam is coming to realize just how little the man sleeps.

"Are _you_ okay?" Sam asks him, suddenly curious. He's looking closely at Alan's face with the question, and so he catches the quick widening of Alan's eyes, the cracking of his pokerface into miles of choking worry. Then the glimpse is gone, replaced by the unbreakable calm Alan wears like a mantle, and Alan gives Sam a sheepish smile.

"I've been better," he admits with a shrug. "In all the years you've been giving me material to worry over, I've never had _quite_ this much cause for alarm." 

"I'm sorry." Sam is surprised how sincerely he means it. The last thing he wants is for Alan to be freaked out on his behalf. But Alan is already shaking his head, watching Sam with a wry, tired expression.

"It's not your fault," Alan admits. "I just—" He stops himself short, and Sam wonders how that sentence would have ended.

"You just what?" he presses, reluctant to let it go. Alan sets his mug down on the table and regards Sam in silence for a long time. The quiet is too heavy on Sam's shoulders, and it's all he can do to meet Alan's eyes. But he asked; he can wait for Alan's answer.

"Sam, you must realize." A pause, a hesitation, Alan's eyes dropping to his mug. "If anything were to happen... If I lost you..." 

"You won't," Sam says when Alan's words taper away to nothing. He reaches out, sets a hand on Alan's wrist and gives a reassuring squeeze. "I'm not going anywhere, okay?" Alan's eyes rise again to his, and Alan's free hand closes over Sam's. Squeezing back. Mutual reassurance. They both return to their coffees with a strange symmetry of posture. They both sip scalding liquid and Sam has the distinct sense they're _both_ trying to find a way to lighten the moment. 

When Quorra steps into the kitchen, quiet on bare feet, her presence is a palpable relief. She goes straight for the coffeemaker—apparently Alan has taught her well—and stirs both cream and sugar into the mug she pours. Sam's surprised she isn't chilly, considering the baggy t-shirt and bare legs, but she seems perfectly at ease as she leans against the counter and regards them curiously. 

"Morning, Q," Alan says over his own drink, holding it up as though to toast her. 

"Good morning." She sips at her coffee. Sam considers his own still-steaming mug, and realizes he has no interest in actually drinking it. Heavier concerns are weighing him down, and he has no good reason to keep avoiding them.

"I should check on Tron," he says, standing. Alan doesn't try to stop him, and Quorra only nods at him on his way by. 

The bannister is cool beneath his hands as he climbs the stairs to the second floor. He doesn't knock at the guest room door, just turns the knob and steps right through, finding Tron asleep on the other side. 

Tron takes up the whole of the narrow bed, lying shirtless against the pillows. His arm is expertly bandaged, no sign of blood through the clean linen. There's not really enough space for Sam to sit on the edge of the mattress, so he tugs a chair over instead, taking up a post at Tron's uninjured side. Sam's posture slumps forward, elbows braced on his knees as he takes in the lines of Tron's face, and he's again struck by how young and surreal Tron looks when he sleeps. The fierce intensity is gone from his face, and the change is arresting. Now that he's here, Sam can't figure out how to look away.

The sun is just rising, pink showing through the window, when Tron finally opens his eyes. Sam blinks, glancing at the clock as he realizes just how long he's been sitting here.

"You're awake," Sam observes, cursing himself inwardly for stating the obvious. "I'll get you some water."

He doesn't even make it out of his chair before Tron catches him hold of him, moving so fast Sam doesn't realize he's reaching until Tron's hand closes around his wrist. Tron's grip is careful but unrelenting, and Sam settles back down into his seat without thought or protest.

"Okay, you got it," he answers Tron's silent stare. "Not going anywhere." 

Tron lets go and closes his eyes again, and Sam says nothing more.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Sam doesn't know much about gunshot wounds or medicine, but it doesn't take a licensed physician to know that Tron heals a hell of a lot faster than he should. Sam changes Tron's bandages himself, sees the progress with his own eyes. It should definitely take more than three days for the wound to close, for the skin to look that clean and smooth. At a glance Sam's pretty sure there will be a scar, but quick as Tron is healing, he wouldn't stake his life on the prediction.

For the first time, he finds himself in no rush to get back to his own apartment. There's something grounding about Alan's home. Maybe it's just all the crises that have brought Sam here in the past few months; maybe it's only right that Alan's home has come to feel like a sanctuary. Lately, even with Tron at his back, it's only here in this house that Sam really feels safe.

None of this will stop him going home at the first chance he gets—just as soon as Tron is back up to his usual uncanny speed—but Sam can afford to be grateful in the meantime. 

Tron mostly sleeps through those few days of healing, like his body needs every spare ounce of energy to repair itself. Sam can't explain why he finds himself at such loose ends—not without acknowledging just how much he's come to rely on Tron's quiet presence, every moment of every day. It's worse being essentially under house arrest, while Sam waits for his bodyguard to recover. Alan brings him work from Encom, but that's as far as he'll let Sam push. The man is in full-on mama bear mode, fierce and overprotective. It seems as far as Alan is concerned, Sam can live like a hermit until Tron is back on his feet.

Sam does as much work as he can, from Alan's living room or from the kitchen table. He does some of his own programming, something he hasn't had time for in the months since he took back Encom. And he talks to Quorra, for what feels like the first time in weeks.

"So. What's up with you?" He asks, folding himself into the corner of the couch opposite the side she's taken herself. He nudges her with one foot to draw her attention away from the book in her hands, and she gives him a dry smile before marking her page and setting the book aside.

"I could ask you the same," she points out gently. "Sometimes it seems like I never see you unless someone's trying to kill you."

Sam gives a helpless shrug and a wild grin, and says, "What can I say? Taking over a computer company is busy work."

"I bet it is." The smile she gives him is fond enough that he knows she understands, that she's not really offended at his careless absences. 

"Seriously, though," Sam says. "What've you been up to? I saw you up to your eyeballs in paperwork last week, and as far as I know Alan hasn't put you to work for Encom." 

"They're applications." Her eyes are warm with excitement as she explains, "All my life I've known exactly what I can and can't do, and _can't_ has always been the longer list. But out here, off the Grid? I can do anything I want. So I'm going to school." 

"That's amazing." Sam blinks, surprised but admiring. He never had the patience for school himself, and he's always wondered if dropping out was a mistake. "What are you going to study?"

"Chemical engineering, I think. I'm not sure yet. There are too many choices." Quorra gives a shrug and a warm half smile. "I'll have to do some remedial work, and there are some credentials I'll need to fabricate. But it should all be doable."

" _Where_ are you going to study?" Sam presses, scooting towards the center of the couch and folding one leg up on the cushion beneath him. 

"Somewhere close," she says. "There are plenty of schools in the area, for both undergraduate and graduate work. Alan has invited me to stay with him. He says I can consider this my home for as long as I like." 

"That's... Wow." He's not really surprised, though. Alan's got a generous heart, and in a few short months Sam has witnessed how surely Quorra has settled in. There's an easy and uncomplicated friendship between the two that even Sam can see, little as he's over these days, and he realizes he likes the thought of Quorra staying. He likes the idea of Alan having someone more reliable than Sam around, reminding him there's more to life than Encom. 

"Anyway," Quorra's watching him with unmasked amusement now, "I've crunched the numbers, and I think I can make this work." A pause, a sheepish downward cast of her gaze, and she adds, "Alan offered to pay, but I can't let him do that. He's already been so generous. He won't even let me pay rent."

"You could borrow the money from me," Sam says. And though he speaks the words without thinking them through first, he realizes immediately that the plan is sound. "I've got plenty, and I'm sure as hell not using it. And you can pay me back down the road, once you're settled, once you've got a job."

Quorra's brow furrows as she considers his offer. When she looks at him again there's a knowing spark in her eye. "That _would_ save me from committing fraud on my loan applications."

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

All told, it's less than a week before Tron is back to full strength. Even the scar Sam thought would remain in the wake of the gunshot is gone. Sam overhears Alan admonishing Tron to caution, but somehow he knows Alan's concerns are unnecessary; whatever the explanation, Tron is completely healed. If they took him to a proper doctor (which they won't, certainly not now that the danger has passed), Sam would bet hard money the doc wouldn't even be able to tell where Tron had been shot.

Tron is silent the entire drive back to Sam's apartment. He sits watchful in the passenger seat of the car, with Marvin secure in his lap and his gaze in constant motion along the street. Sam knows Tron well enough to recognize that there's something he wants to say. But Tron doesn't speak, and Sam drives in silence, and the city passes with the familiar bustle of noontime.

It's not until they're home, heavy door clattering shut and Marvin hopping onto the couch, that Tron finally says, "We can't continue like this." There's grim determination in the words, and a quiet ferocity that catches Sam off guard. He looks to Tron in surprise, confused and not entirely sure how to read the dark intensity he glimpses in Tron's eyes.

"Like what?"

"We can't keep moving on the defensive," Tron says, as if that explains. He moves closer to Sam, footsteps silent on the cement floor. "We need to figure out who means you harm, and find a way to make them stop." 

Sam snorts, an incredulous sound, and shakes his head. "Yeah. Fine. Good luck with that." 

He doesn't wait to see how Tron will respond to Sam's skepticism. His feet are already carrying him up the stairs to his bedroom, towards a change of clothes and maybe even a nap. He knows Tron is following from the tingle at the back of his neck, though Tron's footsteps make no sound.

Sam is barely off the top step before the universe abruptly rearranges itself, starting with the cool strength of Tron's fingers closing around his bicep. Sam turns around—tries to at least—but he nearly stumbles over his own feet. Tron is shoving him hard, tilting the world off balance. Sam's confused brain scrambles to catch up, as his back collides with the wall and Tron's cool weight pins him in place.

"What the _hell_ —?" he starts to ask, but never gets to finish. Tron's mouth stops him short, closing hard over Sam's in a kiss as forceful as it is unexpected.

Sam's head spins, his pulse kicks up in wild surprise, his skin warms with startled heat. Tron's hands move restlessly, one cupping the back of Sam's skull, fingers sliding through the short hair at his nape and sending overheated tingles along Sam's spine. Tron tugs Sam's head back, using the leverage to guide him to a better angle, a deeper kiss. Sam parts his lips for Tron's tongue, and it takes him a moment's startled confusion to realize the moan in his ears is his own.

He doesn't remember reaching for Tron, but he's clinging now, fingers clutched in the fabric of Tron's shirt. He can't breathe, can't _think_ , can't believe he didn't see this. He can't believe those are Tron's hands, pinning him and holding him close.

Sam gasps when Tron ends the kiss, his chest rising and falling unsteadily. His own breath sounds harsh in his ears, stutters out of him in a rush when Tron's mouth closes on his throat. Tron presses bruising kisses below his jaw, and Sam gasps at the light sting of teeth, the realization that Tron is marking him _deliberately_. There's something greedy in the way Tron is holding him still, and Sam's blood pulses faster as it rushes south. He's hard—has been since his back hit the wall—and he can barely breathe, he wants so badly for Tron to touch him.

Tron's teeth catch briefly on Sam's earlobe, and the gravel in Tron's voice a moment later goes straight to Sam's already aching cock.

"You are mine, Sam Flynn." Tron breathes the words into Sam's skin, holds him harder still. "Mine to protect. _Mine_."

" _Yeah_ ," Sam agrees, breathless and barely coherent. He needs more. He needs friction, he needs _something_.

When Tron jerks him away from the wall, Sam follows unresisting. He has the surreal sense that he _couldn't _resist, even if he wanted to, but somehow the thought doesn't trouble him. He feels safe in Tron's hands—safe as he's manhandled toward his bed and then knocked down onto the mattress.__

__Tron is already there by the time Sam pushes himself up onto his elbows. Tron is on his knees, shifting closer, positioning himself above Sam and pushing him down onto his back._ _

__Sam blinks and stares up at Tron. The pale circuits along perfect skin have transformed, brightened, begun glowing with mounting power. They're faintly visible even through the dark fabric of Tron's sweater._ _

__Sam's movements are without conscious thought as he reaches for the hem of Tron's shirt and tugs it up for a better look. Tron only hesitates a moment (reluctant to take his hands off of Sam maybe), before sitting back on his knees and dragging his shirt off with a smooth, artless flourish._ _

__Sam stares, mouth watering at the sight of all that skin, the intricate patterns aglow all along Tron's torso. The circuitry pulses brighter as Tron registers Sam's scrutiny, and an instant stretches endless between them._ _

__In the next instant Tron's stillness breaks, and he's a tidal wave all over again, crashing towards Sam, taking hold of him with strong hands, taking Sam's mouth with his own. Tron's skin is impossibly smooth beneath Sam's palms, the firm muscles of his chest tight with the effort of holding Sam down. Tron's flesh, normally cool to the touch, is warmer wherever circuitry pulses, and Sam wants more. He wants to feel that contrast against more than just the palms of his hands. He can't beg, not with Tron's tongue in his mouth, not with Tron's hands pinning him down. But he _wants_ , and Sam groans helplessly into Tron's kiss._ _

__Somehow Tron must understand, because suddenly instead of pinning Sam to the mattress, his hands are frantic motion. Grabbing at Sam's clothes, tugging and twisting and impatient. Fabric tears and the bed jostles and somehow, _finally_ , Sam is naked. He reaches for the clasp of Tron's pants, rushing to get them open before Tron's hands come to restrain him again. He barely has the zipper down before Tron knocks him flat, pinning Sam with the muscled weight of his body._ _

__Skin-to-skin like this, the sensation of flesh and circuitry is almost too much. Sam gasps, helpless and overwhelmed, as Tron's mouth closes on the unmarked side of his throat and stakes fresh claim._ _

__Sam can't think like this. All he can do is cling to Tron and ride the sensations, desperation singing beneath his skin. He arches beneath Tron, and the friction only maddens him further. It's not enough to find his release, not by a long shot._ _

__He's not even trying to keep track of Tron's touches and movements. He can't spare the brainpower. Somewhere along the line Tron must lose the trousers, because suddenly there's a smooth, matching hardness meeting Sam's. The silk of Tron's cock slips along the crease of Sam's thigh, like an offer of more._ _

__Sam scrounges up enough focus to open his eyes and look down between their bodies, and his breath catches. The glowing lines of circuitry, almost blinding now in their brightness, look surprisingly delicate along the flushed length of Tron's cock._ _

__Sam's mouth waters. He suddenly, desperately wants to taste._ _

__But he's not calling the shots right now. Between that thought and his very next breath, the world upends again. Vertigo passes quickly, and suddenly Sam is on his stomach. Tron's hands are still gripping him, guiding Sam's knees beneath him. A pillow bunches awkwardly beneath Sam's cheek, and he catches his lower lip between his teeth, closes his eyes, grounds himself with the feel of the bruises Tron's fingers are digging into his flank._ _

__The finger that slides into him is slick with lube, and even as Sam's ass twinges around the sensation, he takes a moment to startle at the implications. Tron knows what he's doing. He came prepared for this. He must have been thinking about it for god only knows how long, and again Sam wonders how he could have missed this building between them._ _

__Then a second finger slides in beside the first, and _thinking_ is abruptly beyond Sam. He gasps a broken sound into the pillow, and his fingers clutch in the bedspread as Tron's fingers twist and curl inside him—loosening his body, working him open. Preparing him. Sam's breath is ragged, his entire body trembling._ _

__It seems an eternity later when Tron's fingers finally slip out of him, and then there's a different sort of prodding at Sam's aching entrance. He forces himself to breathe, out and then in, tries to old himself loose for the thicker bluntness of Tron's cock. Anticipation catches fiercely in his chest, and a greedy chorus of _yes-yes-yes-god-please-yes_ sings in his blood._ _

__When the slick length enters him, the first sensation to accompany it is pain. Sam cries out, even though he knew it was coming—even though he knew it would hurt—he gives a bright, sharp shout as Tron slots home._ _

__Tron goes still inside him, weight bearing down on Sam's back, one arm braced beside Sam's head. He doesn't pull out. He doesn't even wait like Sam expects; barely a heartbeat passes, and then Tron's fingers tighten on Sam's hip. Tron fucks him deeply, drawing out only to thrust roughly in. Again. By the third thrust, Sam's body is arching to meet him, discomfort giving way to the force of pleasure winding tight in his gut. Conflicting sensations overwhelm him as Tron's pace speeds, fucking Sam harder, claiming him with greedy thrusts and turning Sam into a shaking mess want._ _

__Tron's mouth presses hungry kisses between Sam's shoulder blades, up his spine to the back of his neck. He growls into Sam's skin, wordless and fierce, and Sam moans with the increasing force of Tron's thrusts. His breath hitches every time Tron bottoms out, Tron's body pressing snug and close behind Sam._ _

__He wants to beg. He can't find the words or voice to do it._ _

__By the time Sam comes, he's lost all sense of time and reason. His body is a live wire, orgasm crashing through him like the end of the world, and everything shatters to pieces._ _

__Tron has shifted him onto his back by the time Sam comes down, and Tron's hips snap forward one hard, final time. Sam can't see the expression that accompanies Tron's orgasm; he can't see _anything_ through the blaze of circuits. He has to close his eyes against the blinding light, impossible to look at. Tron is a warm weight, clutching Sam close as Tron stills deep inside, and comes with a hot rush. Sam gasps at the sensation, the slick warmth in his ass, claiming him as surely as the length of flesh still braced inside him. _ _

__He's never felt so owned._ _

__"Tron," he whispers in a hoarse voice. Then Tron's weight settles forward, and Tron's mouth captures Sam's in a needy kiss._ _

____

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

In the moments after slipping out of Sam's body, Tron has no urge whatsoever to leave the bed. He has no desire to take his hands off of Sam, or to cede any fraction of the claim he just laid over this User who is his to protect.

The bedspread is a rumpled mess beneath them, and neither makes any effort to slip beneath the sheets as Tron tucks Sam against his side. Sam obeys the wordless command of Tron's touch with exhausted compliance, and Tron counts the steadying breaths as Sam settles his head on Tron's chest. Silence lingers only briefly between them; there will inevitably be questions.

"Christ," Sam breathes after several moments of slowing calm. "Where did _that_ come from?" 

Instead of answering, Tron ducks his head for a quieter kiss. Sam's lips part for him, just as they did under Tron's more forceful assault, and Tron dips his tongue inside, tasting more carefully now. He takes the time to savor, now that the needful frenzy is fading. 

He wonders at his own actions, aware in a detached way that he has taken unforgivable liberties. He would have experienced guilt once, in a different lifetime, for everything he just did. But he feels no remorse now. There's only satisfaction beneath his skin, humming through his code like victory. 

He has taken only that which already belonged to him, and he is not sorry.


	11. Takedown

Sam suspects something is up when Quorra's name pops up on his cell, an incoming call instead of a text. She's one for texting if she uses a cell phone at all—argues that a telephone is cheating anyway, so what difference does it make? Sam has yet to come up with a solid rebuttal.

"What's up?" he says, holding the phone to his ear.

Tron, standing by the window of Sam's office, gives him a look that wavers somewhere between curiosity and disinterest. Sam pretends to ignore him (even though he can't ignore Tron, he physically can't, no matter how accustomed he's become to Tron's constant presence). 

"Sam," Quorra's voice is dry with fond exasperation, like they're sharing a joke but it's not as funny as Sam thinks. "You and Tron are coming to dinner tonight."

"We are?" Sam blinks down at his desk.

"Yes." The exasperation disappears so suddenly Sam is _sure_ now that something's up. "Alan says he'll be home late, but I'll make something. Come by around seven?"

"You'll cook." Sam doesn't mean to sound skeptical, and in the silence that follows he pictures Quorra rolling her eyes.

"I _can_ cook, Sam. But if you'd rather have takeout—"

"No, hey, whatever you want's fine by me." Mostly he just has a tough time picturing Quorra cooking for _him_. She's saved his ass enough times, shouldn't he be doing _her_ favors? Then again, he saved her butt at least once. Maybe they're square. And maybe none of this is the point. "We'll be there." 

"Good." Quorra hangs up without a goodbye, and Sam just stares ruefully down at his phone, wondering what he's gotten himself into.

Curiosity gnaws at him through the trudging rest of the afternoon. By the time he and Tron drive to Alan's house, Sam is antsy with the need to know. Tron must notice—he notices everything about Sam—but he doesn't say anything. He offers only one hint of acknowledgment towards Sam's excess energy, when Sam's right leg is vibrating from the quick tapping of his foot against the floor of the car. Tron's hand curls over Sam's leg, fingers ghosting his knee, pressing Sam to stillness. Sam offers a sheepish smile, and though Tron doesn't smile back, Sam's reasonably sure he's not imagining the amusement in his eyes.

He half expects delivery pizza to be waiting on the kitchen table, but instead there's some pasta dish. Not quite fettuccine Alfredo, but close. It tastes good, and Sam has to give Quorra props for knowing this world only a few short months and already proving herself more competent in a kitchen than Sam will ever be. She's a quick freaking study. But then, he knew that already.

"So, what's up?" he asks, when the food is gone and the plates are cleared—mostly Sam's doing, because hey, Quorra cooked. It's the least he can do. 

She's got a half empty glass of milk in her hand and an uncharacteristically grim expression on her face. She wasn't wearing that look a second ago. Sam sits back down and braces himself. 

"Tron asked me to do some digging after the shooting," she admits, curling both hands around her glass. There's no apology in her voice or her eyes, and Sam tamps down the surge of indignation that first hits him in response. 

"Did he." A quick glance towards Tron reveals the smooth, familiar lines of that nearly unreadable face. Tron is clearly unrepentant, no surprise there. Sam turns his attention back to Quorra, reminding himself that they've got every right to be worried about him. It doesn't matter how long Sam's been watching his own back and refusing to rely on anyone, he's not living in that world anymore. He's not allowed to get pissed at people for caring what happens to him.

"I didn't figure you'd be too happy about it," Quorra admits, darting her own conspiratorial glance at Tron before locking Sam back in her sights. "But Sam, this can't continue. We've been lucky so far, but whoever wants to hurt you is going to keep coming. If they try enough times, eventually they'll succeed."

"So what?" Sam asks uncomfortably. "What the fuck am I supposed to do about it? I don't even know who wants me dead." He still can't believe _anyone_ wants him dead most days. It's too surreal. Murder's no way to do business. 

"I'm good with information systems," Quorra says. "And there are a finite number of people with both motive and means to come at you. So I... investigated. A little."

"You hacked your way to proof of who's out for my blood," Sam translates, impressed despite his indignation. "So come on then, don't keep me in suspense. Who is it?"

"A couple former board members are in conspiracy," Quorra says like it's the simplest thing in the world. "But Richard Mackey is the ringleader."

"Jesus," Sam mutters, and mostly he's just depressed at realizing he's not surprised. Even from a distance he's always known Mackey for a complete slimeball. Sam wouldn't have pegged him for homicide, but in retrospect it seems an obvious enough fit. "What am I supposed to do with this? We can't go to the cops with the information, not if you obtained it illegally."

"What you do now is your choice," Quorra says. She shrugs in an attempt to look unconcerned, but the gesture is too heavy. She can't hide her worry. Sam's own insides feel tight with the impotent need to _do_ something, with anger he's got no way to vent. Who the fuck is Richard Mackey to try and get Sam killed, over a fucking business dispute? How is this even real?

Sam drops forward, crossing his arms over the table and propping his chin on them. Pondering, he would say if asked. Sulking is maybe a more accurate description. He thinks long and hard about what Quorra has told him, wondering what he's supposed to do about it. He could ask Alan. Alan's never let Sam down before, he won't start now. 

When Quorra stands and leaves the kitchen, it's without a word. Tron stays right where he is, right at Sam's side where he belongs, equally silent as the minutes stretch into almost an hour.

"Come on," Sam finally says, pushing back from the table and standing. "We should get home." He'd consider sticking around if he could be sure Alan would come home soon, but Alan is still at Encom. He could be hours yet, and Sam's feeling too much on edge to wait around.

He could text Alan. But then Alan will know something's up. He'll worry, whether he can come home or not. Sam's not going to put that on him when he doesn't even know for himself what he wants to do.

Tron is still sitting at the table, regarding Sam with stormy eyes, and his voice when he speaks is smooth and steady. 

"You should stay here tonight, Sam."

Sam freezes, not quite to the door, and turns to gape at Tron. "You're joking, right?" 

He stares as Tron rises in a quick, fierce motion. He doesn't have time to react before Tron is closing on him, backing Sam against the wall beside the door and bracketing him possessively in. Not touching him. He doesn't have to touch Sam to pin him immovably in place. Sam's protests die unspoken, caught in his throat like a lump of overheated emotion. Tron's eyes are almost glowing, and Sam imagines the lines of circuitry beneath his shirt pulsing brighter. 

"I need you safe, Sam Flynn," Tron says, and this time his voice is impossibly soft. "Please. Let me take care of this." 

"Take care of it how?" Sam demands, heart hammering noisily in his chest. 

But Tron doesn't answer. His mouth takes Sam's in a greedy kiss, fast and deep, and when he draws back too soon Sam's head is spinning with frustrated want. He knows, whatever Tron intends to do, Sam won't be able to dissuade him from it. He knows Tron's distracting refusal to answer is one more attempt to protect him, this time from incriminating knowledge. He knows all these things, but somehow he finds himself nodding agreement anyway.

"All right," he says. "But promise you'll be careful."

Tron gives only the barest tilt of his head, but it's a promise just the same. When he turns to leave—via the back door, Sam notes in a disjointed corner of his brain—Sam doesn't protest.

Alan returns from Encom two hours later. He masks his surprise at finding Sam keeping company with Quorra in his living room. He doesn't comment on the anxious jiggling of Sam's knee or the way his fingers keep falling still on his laptop keyboard as his eyes go distant.

"Where's Tron?" Alan asks. The lightness in his voice is forced. Quorra told him, then. Quorra told him and then left Alan out of the rest of the conversation deliberately; protecting him, maybe, the way Tron protected Sam by refusing to answer his questions. 

"He's out," Sam answers, with as casual a shrug as he can muster. But Alan continues to hover at his elbow, and Sam raises his eyes. He finds Alan watching him with an almost wary expression, and Sam says, more honestly, "We probably don't want to know."

He wonders if Alan will press him for more, will make Sam admit he doesn't _know_ more. But Alan nods, appeased, and mutters something about putting the coffee on as he turns toward the hall.

"You'll be up all night!" Quorra calls after him, but makes no other effort to stop him.

Sam shakes his head, returns his eyes to his laptop screen, and goes back to accomplishing absolutely nothing.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Richard Mackey clearly has no intention of being found, but Tron has more resources than just the gun beneath his jacket. He's a security program, with a keen eye for information and a way with computers. Quorra's work—better than his, he'll readily admit—gives him somewhere to start. He uses a public terminal for the rest, covering his tracks as thoroughly as possible while determining that Mackey is still in the city—then tracking him down to one of half a dozen personal safe houses, all rented out under false names.

It seems paranoid, even to Tron's eyes. But then, Encom's former chairman has proved himself a man who solves a business dispute by hiring people to murder the competition. Considering the tactics he's willing to stoop to, maybe it's not such a grand leap to assuming the worst of everyone else.

Tron resents him, and not simply for endangering Sam Flynn, though that in itself is reason enough. No one will harm Sam while Tron has power to protect him. Anyone who tries deserves all the wrath whirling in Tron's chest. 

But in a lesser, quieter way, Tron resents the man for his own selfish sake. He resents what he has to do tonight, though he won't for an instant shrink at the task. He resents being reminded that he is broken. That he is _wrong_ , in ways that he can't entirely blame on Clu. Richard Mackey deserves what he's brought on himself, but that doesn't mean Tron has to like it.

It's a quick bus ride to the towering high rise where he knows he'll find his target, and Tron takes his time surveying the terrain. Enormous windows span the ground floor, showing a brightly lit lobby and a wide security desk before a silvery bank of elevators. There's no way to reach his target through the front door—not if he wants to get away clean—and he doesn't have time to case the rest of the ground floor in search of back entrances and holes in the building's security. 

Front door and back door are both out. Fortunately, Tron has other options.

He steps back from the building, crossing all the way to the other side of the street in order to raise his eyes and take in the entire height. Some of the windows are dark at this hour, but mostly there's light and activity, silhouettes moving behind closed blinds. Tron counts the floors, counts the windows, pinpoints exactly where he needs to go. 

Then he crosses the street once more, keeping to the shadows as he reaches the smooth stone corner of the building. The alley shrouds him, and Tron reaches up for a hold. His fingers find an uneven edge of stone, barely enough to grip, but it will do.

He begins to climb.

From ten floors up, the apartments are equipped with balconies, and the climbing is easier. Chill wind grows colder and stronger the higher Tron climbs. He keeps his grip with calculated determination, continues upwards at a steady pace. Mackey's apartment isn't on the top floor, but it's close, and when Tron reaches the balcony his nerves are hot and alive with grim anticipation. He pulls himself over the cold iron railing and lands silently in the shadows. 

The balcony door is large, all sliding glass. Long white blinds stretch from floor to ceiling inside, blocking any direct view of the room beyond. The light that glows behind them is weak, like lamplight glowing from somewhere deeper inside the apartment. Tron tries the door and is unsurprised when it doesn't give. He briefly considers subtle options, listens until a distant scrape of movement inside reassures him that his prey is in fact present.

Then he gives a careless shrug, uses the butt of his gun to strike the glass of the window, and reaches through to unlock the door from inside. 

He doesn't bother sliding the door shut behind him as he re-holsters his gun and steps into the dimly lit apartment. There's a quiet scuffle of footsteps from the lighted hall, someone with little skill for stealth trying to approach quietly. Tron is already moving, even before Richard Mackey comes into view with a gun in one hand and a cell phone clutched in the other. Disarming him is as simple as reaching out and twisting the gun from his grip, thumbing on the safety before tossing it across the room. The phone makes a subdued crunch of metal and plastic as Tron crushes it with one hand, and then he turns his attention to Richard Mackey's terrified face.

Tron doesn't give him time to back away. He darts behind Mackey, quick and smooth, grabbing one arm and twisting it up behind the man's back, forcing him to his knees. Mackey stifles a grunt of pain as Tron twists his arm too far. Farther still and there's the pop of Mackey's shoulder wrenching from its socket—a scream muffled by the flat of Tron's palm.

Tron lets the scream pass with measured patience. He waits until Mackey is breathing heavily but more quietly through his nose, and then he speaks.

"If you make another sound, I'll kill you long before help can come. If you hear me out quietly, I'll let you live. Do you understand?"

A hesitation, but then a nod, and Tron releases Mackey entirely. He moves around to crouch on his heels before his wounded prey. Mackey stays on his knees, slouching, eyes wide with shock and terror. He cradles his dislocated arm uselessly and makes an obvious though unsuccessful effort to control his breathing. 

"You know who I am," Tron says, voice barely rising with the words. Question and statement in one. There's a pause that makes him wonder if Mackey will try to play stupid, but finally he nods with pained, wary eyes. Tron's own eyes narrow, and he continues, "Then you know why I'm here."

"No," Mackey lies. Transparent. 

Tron cocks his head to one side and keeps silent long enough to watch Mackey grow even more twitchy. He has all night, after all. Mackey might not. They both know this.

"Fine," Mackey says. "Suppose I do. You can't prove anything."

"I don't need to prove anything," Tron says simply. If it weren't for the chilly violence underpinning the words he would sound patient. As it is, he knows well enough how he sounds. He sees the effect his voice has on the man before him, the trembling, the fear so powerful it nearly overwhelms the pain in Mackey's eyes. 

Mackey knows better than to ask stupid questions, at least. Or maybe he's too scared to try. Either way, the night-chilled living room is silent until Tron speaks again.

"I'm here with a warning. If harm comes to Sam Flynn, I will hold you accountable." He offers no particulars, no specific threats. He doesn't need to. Mackey is still cradling the arm Tron dislocated so effortlessly, and even in the dim light he must be able to read the barely contained violence flashing in Tron's eyes. The man may be a coward, but he's not entirely stupid. He knows he's in the presence of a hunter who would as soon see him dead as breathing. 

With obvious difficulty, Mackey rallies himself, attempting a defiant tone as he says, "Even if I had anything to do with what brought you here, you've got to know I'm not the only one who wants him gone." 

Tron's expression freezes to unforgiving ice; his entire body falls motionless. In that moment he is not even breathing. It's the instant before the kill, a sensation he knows down to the deepest roots of his code. It's a knowledge that owes nothing to Clu, though Clu brought it to the fore and made it a weapon. It's only with great effort now that Tron keeps still. It's little more than luck that has Mackey still breathing, though Tron needs him alive if tonight is to serve its purpose. 

When at last he dares to speak, Tron's voice is vicious and soft. "Then you'd better have a conversation with anyone else who might make the wrong choices. Because I don't care who pulls the trigger. I don't care who foots the bill. I'll come for you first. And then everyone else. I'm sure they'll be just as easy to find." 

_That_ hits home with the undeniable force of a light grenade. Mackey physically shrinks back, cowering like a beaten creature. Tron considers carefully. He has the advantage, but perhaps his point would hold stronger if he caused more physical damage. Something permanent. Something to keep this waste of a man constantly aware of the dangers of stepping over this line Tron has laid before him. Surely he doesn't need _all_ of his fingers.

But no, Tron realizes as he peers coolly down at the man cowering before him. His message has gotten through. Sam will have nothing to fear from this quarter, or from anyone over whom Richard Mackey has influence. Tron will never be able to drop his vigilance, but there will be no more trouble from this source.

When Tron rises, Mackey's eyes follow him anxiously. Mackey doesn't try to stand—another point in the column of Not Completely Stupid—and Tron circles him, drawing the gun from his holster. The moment he pauses then is pure spite. There's no tactical advantage to it. It's not physically possible to frighten this man further than he already is. But Tron waits anyway, letting the moment stretch, letting Mackey wonder if Tron will kill him tonight after all.

Then, careful to marshal his swing to give no worse than a concussion, Tron brings the butt of his gun down on Mackey's head and watches him fall unconscious to one side. Simple. He'll wake in pain and call an ambulance. He won't call the police. They'll be involved soon after, but Tron doesn't worry about that. Mackey will tell them nothing. 

Tron takes an extra moment to wipe down the few things he's touched, leaving no evidence behind him but the damaged man and the broken pane of glass.


	12. Epilogue

It's nearly dawn when Tron returns. Alan's house is quiet, and Sam is in Tron's bed rather than his own. He hadn't figured on sleeping, but he must have drifted off at some point. His head is full of fragmented snapshots, confusing dreams of Tron and the Grid. Distorted images of Clu and his father, impossible to tell apart.

He knows it's the sound of the back door that's woken him, carrying softly from the bottom of the stairs. Tron is obviously trying to be quiet, but Sam hears enough to make out multiple cautious voices. 

Alan and Quorra both. They must have been waiting up for Tron, the way Sam couldn't. He can't make out Alan or Quorra's words, but Tron's answer reaches him clear and sharp.

"It's taken care of." 

"Sam's asleep," Quorra says, audibly this time. "Upstairs. _You_ should rest, too." 

More indecipherable murmuring, Alan's voice, then Tron's. Complete silence follows, though Sam knows he won't hear Tron approach. Not until— There it is, the soft creak of the guest room door as Tron opens it and steps inside. Knowing to find Sam here, in Tron's bed, instead of asleep in his own room.

Sam sits up, taking in the sight of Tron, lit only by starlight from the window. Tron sheds his coat and shrugs out of the straps of his holster, hanging coat and gun over the back of a chair. Sam wants him to ditch the shirt, too, and offer a glimpse of the glowing patterns lining his skin. Even if Tron looks perfectly calm right now, the circuits will show in the dark room.

But Tron sheds no more layers as he approaches. He sits on the edge of the bed, facing Sam, close enough to touch. 

"I'm glad you're back," Sam says cautiously, feeling like he's talking in code. "Is everything okay?" 

"Yes. Richard Mackey is taken care of." 

Something in the words feels wrong. There's calculated ice in Tron's voice. A sense of foreboding riles Sam's curiosity but somehow, simultaneously, warns him he doesn't want to know. Sam can't leave it alone, of course. He's too stubborn for that.

"Taken care of," he echoes dubiously. "What does that mean?" He doesn't dare ask flat-out if Mackey's dead. If the answer is yes, he'd just as soon not know. There's something reassuring in the way Tron's expression softens, the chilliness in his gaze giving way to exasperated fondness and then, gradually, to a more familiar warmth.

"I said it's taken care of. Just trust me. I won't let anyone hurt you." 

Sam can't help grinning at that. The idea that he needs protecting—the realization that sometimes it's actually true—bothers him less than he could ever have predicted. And it's got everything to do with the sure, unassailable knowledge that he has Tron. He's not alone anymore, not an island unto himself the way he always thought he wanted. He's got Tron to watch his back, literally and figuratively, and he finds he can't imagine going back to the way things were before.

"C'mere," Sam mutters, reaching for Tron and tugging him closer. Tron obeys, swaying into Sam's orbit and taking his mouth in a greedy kiss. Sam parts his lips for Tron's tongue, wraps his arms around strong shoulders as Tron presses him down against the pillows.

It's difficult to keep quiet when Tron touches him, but Sam does his best. Alan's too smart not to know, or at least suspect, but that doesn't mean it's a conversation Sam ever wants to have. 

He bites at his own knuckles to swallow back a moan, once both of them are naked and Tron thrusts inside. 

Sam knows he'll be aching tomorrow. Tron's pace is frantic, his hands grasping possessive bruises into Sam's hips. Tron takes him with all the strength and desperation of their first time, and Sam buries his gasps and groans and pleas in Tron's skin. He clings to Tron, arches beneath him, bites his own lower lip to keep from crying out when orgasm wrenches through him. 

In the quiet of after, Sam's breathing slows only gradually. The bed is too small for two, but they make it work. Tron feels exactly right along Sam's side, a protective shield of muscle and strength that Sam could never have guessed he would need. When he sleeps, it's with the surety that Tron will be there when he wakes. 

For the first time he can remember—maybe the first time in twenty years—Sam feels safe.


End file.
